A Benevolent Punishment
by Mother of Tears
Summary: Two years after the war, a dissatisfied Muggle science teacher wonders why he has gaps in his memory. Miles away, a young woman awakes from a two year coma with no memory at all. Alternate ending to the Half Blood Prince.
1. Chapter 1

These characters and their setting are the property of J. Rowling and her associates and affiliates.

_A/N: This has been sitting in my WIP folder for a while but I hesitated to post it because I wanted to learn more about ordinary British life, and lately I didn't think I could finish it before Rowlings' final book. But I am taking my inspiration from DUJ who just published one of hers. And so what if I can't finish in time? There are a lot of writers who probably won't finish theirs either! Does that mean we stop? My other two stories are AU anyway, so what's one more? This one isn't an epic. It probably won't top ten chapters, and my "Bring it on" has only three more chapters to go. If my descriptions of British Muggle life sound more like American Muggle life... or neither... please grant me mercy. And if there are any British betas out there who would like to help me, drop me a line!_

_A/N #2: I came up with this idea, believe it or not, in church so the overall story has some religious overtones. If this offends you, do not read it. There is nothing blatant. I shall mention no religion specifically, nor shall I quote anyone's scriptures, but there is a spiritual idea involved that I think anyone of faith will understand. _

_I am certainly not trying to insinuate that this story is divinely inspired, or that God told me to write it. Whether or not God takes a deep interest in something as mundane as fanfiction is anyone's guess. All I can say is that I was sitting in church the day after HBP came out, mourning the loss of my current stories and wondering what was going to take the place of my writing. Writing fanfiction had given me such joy and it was an outlet in an otherwise stressful life. The only problem was the HBP temporarily destroyed the only stories I was interested in writing. I didn't have any other stories and I can't just MAKE inspiration happen. It either comes into my head or it doesn't._

_So I prayed for something-- anything-- any new story to fill the void... and I got this idea. To me it was a gift. Of course I wound up going on with my other stories. I have Country Mouse to thank for that! She sent me the nicest letter asking me, and all her other "in progress" writers to finish our now AU stories. When DH comes out, if I'm not finished with this story I'm going to keep going too._

_This story is an alternate ending to the Half Blood Prince._

**A BENEVOLENT PUNISHMENT**

**Chapter 1: _What am I Doing Here? _**

Snape lifted the chalk and proceeded to mark a series of symbols on the blackboard.

"While I am preparing these equations, I want someone to give me, again, the value of Avogadro's Number." He paused only briefly. "Miss Barnes?"

He hadn't looked to see if the student in question had raised her hand. Snape never called on anyone who had their hand raised and he was more than certain that Emma Barnes would never willingly volunteer information. There was a few seconds of silence where only the tapping of his chalk could be heard.

"I am waiting, Miss Barnes..."

"Ah... Um... sixty two?"

The hand marking numbers on the board paused for a second and, in the absence of the tapping sound, the nervous stir from the students was far more audible. They had every reason to be nervous. Snape sent up a momentary prayer for patience though he was unsure at this point who to address it to, or if it would ever be answered at all.

"Sixty... TWO?" he repeated slowly. He put down the chalk and turned to stare down at his students, addressing the class by way of the unfortunate girl he had decided to pick on that day. "Miss Barnes, I distinctly remember you being present in this room yesterday when we discussed Avogadro and his number. You did pay attention Miss Barnes... did you not? You DID take... _notes, _didn't you?"

The girl's stricken eyes looked like those of an immobilized deer.

"Can anyone else in this class inform Miss Barnes as to the correct value of Avogadro's Number?" Snape's eyes raked each youthful face in turn. No one volunteered. He turned his attention back to his current victim and assailed the rest of the students through her. "DID you take notes?"

She nodded red faced.

"Well, then," he continued softly. "We will all wait _impatiently_ while you page through your notes until you find information concerning Mr. Avogadro..." His voice took on a dangerous edge.

The student fumbled frantically through her notebook, making lots of noise in the now hushed classroom, while those around her flashed her covert looks of sympathy. Finally she found something.

"Six- point- oh- two times ten to the twenty- third power," she stammered.

"Well it's about time!" he snarled sourly before addressing the entire class. "YES. That _is _the answer. Six- Point- Oh- Two times Ten to the Twenty-third Power!" He wrote it loudly with chalk on the side of the board and wondered to himself if this class just _seemed_ more idiotic today or if it was only that his patience was at an all-time low. One needed the patience of a saint to teach here-- patience he surely didn't have.

"And what does the term 'ten to the twenty-third power' _mean _Mr. Stoddard?"

A pudgy boy in the back row jumped a little and looked up at him in frantic alarm.

"It's... uh... ten times ten twenty three times."

"Which means..."

"You have to add twenty three zeros to the number."

Snape's voice rose. "YOU, Mr. Stoddard, were not paying attention EITHER! Is that really your problem boy, or is it that your skull is simply too _thick_ to allow useful information to penetrate? One does not add twenty three zeros to the number! It means, in layman's terms, that the decimal point needs to be moved twenty-three places to the right to display the full number, and that it has been moved twenty-three places to the left to give us workability!

He wrote the number loudly on the board in all its length and glory, and turned back to look at the class. A stealthy movement in the fourth row caught his attention.

"I'll take that Mr. Powers!" He strode toward a tall, redheaded oaf who handed over a folded piece of paper with scant evidence of remorse on his genially stupid face. "Passing notes in class gets you a detention this evening."

With a nasty flourish, he unfolded the note and read it aloud to the class in a slow, derisive manner.

"Dear Priscilla... my... _sweetums." _A pretty blond girl two rows away blushed and giggled. "Meet me in the back pasture by the oak tree at 3:15 for a Super... Mega... _Snog-a-thon.._." The whole class burst into laughter and Snape continued with pronounced sarcasm, "Snog-a-thon... I suppose for a mind as _bovine _as yours, that constitutes the absolute height of romantic subtlety and refinement. What a pity you won't be able to make that assignation since the only place you're going to be at 3:15 is _here _serving detention!"

The boy smirked and looked around at his classmates as though checking for applause. "Aw, C'mon Mr. Snape..." he drawled.

"This classroom. After school. Today," Snape continued in a voice of deadly quiet. "And I think the invitation should be extended to Miss Garfield as well, since she seems to be a party to your crimes."

The blond looked up in instant outrage. "But that's not fair, sir!"

"I will see _both _of you after class," he purred acidly. "Now let's see if we can get back to our elementary lesson in chemistry." He walked back to the board. "We were discussing Avogadro's Number. I don't suppose any of you can tell me what we actually DO with it-- how it applies to these equations?"

No one raised their hands or indicated in any way that they were prepared to tackle the problems on the blackboard.

"Do any of you actually LISTEN in class?" he snapped. "Believe it or not, the purpose of attending school is to _learn_, not to sit stupidly in your seats and stare blankly in front of you like a herd of human cattle! Science instruction-- in this case, Chemistry-- is a required element in your curriculum. Now I _do _realize that most of you are destined for glorious careers in manual labor, where you will probably never _use _anything resembling science ever again, but since the Board of Governors has employed me to teach it to you, that is precisely what I shall endeavor to do! Now, open your books to page 369. Mr. Powers, read the first paragraph loud enough for us all to hear. Do it... Now!"

SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS

Snape sat at his desk and corrected third form tests on Volcanism while he kept watch over the two detention victims writing lines in front of him. He had debated whether he should have them copy out sentences such as, "Chemistry and gross stupidity do not mix," or "Students who pass notes instead of exams are idiots," but resigned himself to the traditional "I must not pass notes in class" written out one hundred times. After all, humor was wasted on chuckleheads such as these. They wouldn't understand it, and neither would their well-meaning but dull-witted parents.

He watched Rick Powers slouching in his seat. The boy's whole countenance was a picture of simple, good-natured arrogance as he laboriously scraped his pen on the paper-- all the while casting covert glances as Prissy Garfield doing the same. Snape noted with satisfaction that the girl didn't return her friend's glances, though it was possible she just didn't see his attempts to get her attention. The students had been seated as far from each other as their disgruntled teacher had been able to put them. Snape had wanted to give them a feeling of displacement in order to further their sense of disgrace. The gangling youth's hurt expression at his girl's lack of response gave Snape a grim flash of pleasure.

_Why did he feel this way? _he wondered as he turned his attention back to the exams he was marking. Why did certain students irritate him so much more than others? There was no logic to it. While Powers was an empty headed, athletic moron who cared more for soccer and rugby than he did anything else, in this out-of-the-way provincial school he was in good company. There were plenty of his fellows-- Brent Johnson, Jimmy Collins, and Eddie Long, to name a few-- who were just as bad , if not worse, than he was. But for some reason, Snape could tolerate those boys far easier than he could young Powers. There was something in the sight of that loose-limbed, long-nosed form with its shock of red hair and freckly face that sparked ire in him like few other students did. And there were others who bothered him too.

In the first form there was a dark haired boy with round-rimmed spectacles that made Snape shiver with secret revulsion. The boy was just an ordinary, unprepossessing youth. He wasn't even a troublemaker. Why should he feel such a strong aversion to him? It was almost as if the child reminded him of someone else, someone he had known once before who had caused him trouble-- a person he had hated, or who had perhaps hated him. But try though he might, Snape could think of no one he had ever known who resembled either of these boys, or any of the other students who rubbed him inexplicably the wrong way.

Surely this was all some silly trick of his mind-- a figment of his imagination or some weird personality quirk. Except that Snape didn't believe in random quirks. His scientific nature demanded that phenomena such as these had to come from something. Everything had to have a cause. It was odd that he could think of nothing that would trigger this emotional sort of reaction in him, but he knew there had to be something.

He glanced at the clock on the wall at the far end of the classroom. Snape had placed it there, instead of the traditional place in the front above the blackboard, so that he could see it throughout the day and mark the time until the end of school. There were days he hung on the movements of that clock, inwardly rejoicing with the passing of every hour. He didn't give a damn if the students couldn't see it. He felt it best not to give them distractions. Snape would have covered the very windows with black shades if he could, to keep the students from looking out of them.

The clock read 3:35. It didn't seem possible that only twenty minutes had passed! Why was it that time moved with the speed of an arthritic tortoise when he was stuck in this classroom? He watched the hulking redhead twitch his shoulders restlessly while he bent his head over the lines he was writing. He also watched the girl glance winsomely over at the boy. Snape scowled at, that but neither of the students saw it. He sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose in weariness.

What in the world was he doing here? Why was he _teaching? _He could think of nothing in his present position that was actually suited to him. Why was he working in this god-forsaken rural backwater, at this tiny regional school, trying to teach the general sciences to country bumpkins?

He should be tinkering in a laboratory somewhere, discovering new substances and making exciting breakthroughs. He should be part of an elite research group pursuing secret, esoteric knowledge for some high level corporation. If he had to be a teacher at all, it should be at a university where brilliant, motivated students appreciated the finer points of Physics and Chemistry. Barring that, he should at least have a position at a prestigious private school such as Eaton or Harrow-- institutions that would guarantee him higher quality minds to teach. There was no logical reason why someone of his talent and potential should be buried in this tiny town as a village schoolmaster. Yet as far back as he could remember, he had always been a teacher...

Snape finished the volcanism tests and began next with his pile of biology quizzes. He ground his teeth as he checked through them. The results were typical of the low quality minds, or was it low quality motivation, that he had to deal with here. It was unbelievable. "Name the five stages in cell mitosis." No one, so far, had them all correct. This was an easy subject-- almost all simple memorization with no mathematics involved-- and still, not one student could name the steps in the correct order, or even remember what all of them were.

No... strike that. There was one student, Miss Fisher, who had them all right. He should have expected it because she always did. A shiver ran through him at the child's small, neat handwriting and correctly spelled answers. Candace Fisher was another of his students who sent him strange vibes. She bothered him and she really, really shouldn't. There was no reason at all why a teacher searching for excellence, for brilliance, should be so irritated by the only student who actually displayed any. But he was.

Miss Fisher's confident, eager manner and effortless competence made him uneasy. Her frequently raised hand irked him. Just the knowledge that she knew the answer... again, made him almost angry. Snape knew he shouldn't treat her the way he often did, but he didn't seem to be able to help it. Her presence felt wrong somehow. He always had a vague feeling that her name or her appearance wasn't entirely right. Every time he looked up or turned around and saw her, it always seemed to hit him with a little jolt of surprise that she looked the way that she did, that her face was not somehow different.

These were odd feelings, perhaps crazy feelings. Why in the world should he have such feelings? They made absolutely no sense. What could possibly be wrong with him? Again, what was he doing here?

The next glance at the clock showed him that it was approaching 4:00. Almost on cue, his detention students rose and came forward with their papers of lines. They looked covertly at each other as they shuffled towards their teacher's desk, the little veiled smiles they flashed each other were adolescent flags of invitation. Snape watched them file out of the room and knew that he had only delayed their little tryst. They'd be kissing, or worse, in some back field somewhere. He didn't know why that affronted him so badly, but it did-- especially since it involved Powers.

He sighed as he packed his remaining papers into his satchel and prepared to leave. What students did after they left his classroom was not his concern. If this were a boarding school, it would be a different matter, but of course he was not fortunate enough to be teaching at a boarding school...

After donning his long, black "great" coat, Snape picked up his satchel, his hat, and his emergency umbrella and began the two mile trek to his bedsitter in town. The locals always looked at him strangely because he walked instead of drove, but then they thought much of what he did was odd or strange. For the most part Snape didn't care what they thought-- or if he sometimes did, he found it only another irritation piled up on the broken camel's back that was his frustrated life. He continued his habit of walking anyway. He just couldn't help it.

Snape _did _have a driver's license, but he used it for identification purposes only. When questioned exhaustively as to why he didn't own a car, or want to buy any of the vehicles local people continually wanted to sell him, he would reply (acidly) that the dismally low salary he received as a teacher here didn't afford him the means to purchase a car, let alone keep one. Besides, walking was scientifically better for one's health. The real reason was something Snape could never, ever tell them.

The reason he didn't drive was just as uncanny, just as crazy, as his odd reaction to certain of his students. _He didn't think he could actually do it. _Snape had memories of owning a car, and memories of driving one, but they were vague, shadowy memories. He couldn't really recall what driving felt like. There seemed to be no specific memories of the _mechanics _of motor vehicle operation, and whenever he got into a car and sat behind the wheel, it felt so frighteningly alien to him that he had to get out immediately. He didn't even think he could say for certain what any of the vehicle's controls did.

In his worse moments, Snape suspected he was going mad, that he had some obscure form of schizophrenia that manifested itself in strange aversions or fetishes. He had even wondered once, after suffering an alarming sense of displacement in the presence of ordinary things, whether he might possible have a brain tumor. _That_, he had had checked out. He had made a trip, by train, to have himself examined by a physician, but no neuro expert had found anything wrong with him. He had instead been encouraged to take some rest or find a hobby, and of course seek therapy. Not that there was any therapy to be had for love or money in this out-of-the-way village... and not that he would ever have sought it.

A farm truck passed him and the driver waved. Snape recognized him as the father of Miss Garfield, and nodded solemnly in return. He wondered if good old farmer Garfield aught to be told what his daughter was engaged in doing at that moment... Too many female students dropped out of school due to untimely pregnancies. But no local wanted a teacher from "outside" to interfere with their business. They hadn't appreciated his attempts to revise the curriculum or to make the school more modern and efficient. They certainly wouldn't accept his input about local morals. None of it was his concern.

He continued on into town, and upon entering it, went first to the post office to check his box. He picked up his latest magazines and journals, tossed out the advertisements and credit card applications, and put the few bills he had in his satchel. There were no personal letters for him-- not that he thought that there would be.

"Package for you today, Professor," said the post-master, lifting it up with maddening familiarity to read the label aloud. "Barnes and Noble. Looks like books again. I say, Professor. You sure like to read your books!"

Snape took the parcel and thanked the man curtly. The locals had taken to calling him "Professor" because he was a teacher and he liked to read-- and because he was stiff and proper and had no interest in all the normal things they thought important. Even though the nickname was usually applied in a friendly manner, they probably didn't mean it as a compliment. Snape was an oddity and they didn't understand him. He had also never made any serious attempt to make them do so. Oddly enough, Snape didn't mind it.

For some reason, being called "professor" felt right to him. He didn't know why that should be, since he had never taught in a college, but he had a distinct feeling that he had been called so before. Perhaps it was only wishful thinking-- a figment of false memory, like a deviant _deja voux _springing from a desperate desire to be more important than he was. Whatever. He never took offense at the name and he never acted like he even noticed it. If he did that they might call him something worse. There were obviously worse monikers they could stick him with, and he had a feeling that he had suffered such in the past. If he felt any irritation, he kept it to himself.

The next stop for him was the tiny public library in the village center. He should be thankful at least that they had a library... such as it was. But it was a poor excuse for one, and it suited the locals just fine. The principle offerings were bodice-ripper romances and lurid who-done-its. Of course it did feature the Encyclopedia Britannica, and copious amounts of farming manuals. The plump, elderly librarian smiled at him as he entered.

"Ah, it's our Professor, and right on time! I had a feeling you'd be coming in today. The books you wanted on loan from London have arrived. My, my! Such books! Molecular Chemistry and Meta-materials, Indexes of Refraction and the Implications for Invisibility. Dear me, I hope you're not going to try to teach this in your classes!"

"Hardly," said Snape briefly. "I can't even get them to remember Avogadro's Number."

"_Who's _number?"

"Avogadro. He was a nineteenth century Italian physicist and chemist."

"You don't say. Italian, huh? Why is his number so important?"

Snape sighed. "It has something to do with chemistry."

It was best not to try to explain. No one was interested. No one understood him. There was no one here that he could talk to about the things he found important. Somehow, some way, he seemed to be currently trapped in Purgatory with no idea how, or for what reason, he had been placed there. Loneliness, spiritual as well as physical, appeared to be his lot in life-- though the loneliness, like the odd feelings and aversions, seemed to be a normal state for him. He was used, at least, to the loneliness, if not the boredom and frustration. But he couldn't help wondering why that should be.

''Ah, well. It's all Greek to me! I'll just stick to my romances and leave the hard reading to you." She picked up her latest Nora Roberts and waved him cheerily on. "At least these should keep you busy for a while. Enjoy your reading, Professor!"

Snape nodded and left. At the most, he had about a week's respite from boredom in these books, perhaps a little more if he counted his journals and the volumes he had bought from mail order. Such tiny straws to grasp at in his miserable life! There was so much to learn and he was so far behind... And where would it all lead him anyway? What could he do with all the knowledge he wanted to have in this tiny, provincial hole, and with his thankless job as a school teacher? _What am I doing here? _

_Professor, _they had called him. How he wished. How he so very badly wished...

_A/N #3: I know. ANOTHER Author's Note! What is wrong with this writer? I'm sorry, but I just can't help it. I have some lines of a song stuck in my head-- lines that inspired the name of this chapter. It is an obscure old Moody Blues ballad that has nothing to do with the content of my chapter, but has the correct mood of melancholy. I can hear Justin Hayward's haunting voice wailing plaintively in my mind..._

_Pale, young squire who goes to fight_

_And I at my master's side._

_Living is just a dream inside_

_You ask me why he cries..._

_What am I doing here? What am I doing here?_

_Beautiful princess fair and pale_

_Stares out across the sea_

_Alone in her castle dark and gray_

_Her love she'll never see._

_What am I doing here? What am I doing here?_

_Tenderly bury the fair young dead_

_Place a wooden cross at his head_

_All the words you can say have been said_

_It's for you my tears are shed..._

_What can be done, you won't believe_

_Listen and you may see_

_Everyone's dream is deep within_

_Find it and you'll be free_

_What am I doing here? What am I doing here?_


	2. Miracle on the Hopeless Ward

These characters and their setting are the property of J. Rowling and her associates and affiliates

**CHAPTER 2: **_**Miracle on the Hopeless Ward **_

Something unexpected had happened on Ward Four, and the entire nursing home was astir over it. Ward Four was often referred to as the Lost Ward, sometimes even as the Terminal Ward, and anyone who ended up there was either facing imminent death or in a state where they might as well be. This was the ward of the stroke victims and the paralyzed, the catatonic and vegetative. It was the place they wheeled you when Hospice took over-- the ward of no return. These patients were considered hopeless and many of them no longer had visitors. Some people even believed they should be helped to die. Yet one had suddenly recovered-- a young woman known in the home as "Emma."

The patient in question had been comatose for over two years, and by common wisdom, her condition was unlikely ever to change. She had been found unconscious by a roadside, battered and bloody, an obvious victim of a hit-and-run, but no further information about her was known. No identification had been found on her. No one stepped forward to claim her, and to all intents and purposes she was just a "Jane Doe."

Odd speculation had gone around about her when she had arrived. Because of her strange manner of dress it was thought she might be a member of some obscure religious cult. She had been found wearing a long, black gown and cloak-- the sort of garb worn by historical reenactors at Renaissance Fairs or Trick-or-Treaters on Halloween. But there had been no local historic fairs or conventions at the time she had been found. There hadn't even been any mascarade parties, and it was long past Halloween season. Further inquiries turned up no other cultic behavior in the area, and no one remembered seeing anyone like her. The poor girl was a complete mystery.

While doctors had worked to save her, inquiries of course were made. The police checked all their missing persons reports and a description of her was sent to all the local newspapers. No match for her had ever turned up. Detectives combed the area where she had been found, looking for anything- a handbag, a cell phone, any clue that might lead them to who she was, where she came from, or the identity of her would-be killer. But they found nothing. Beyond the fact that she was actually lying unresponsive in their hospital, there was no proof she had ever been in their region at all. She had left no trail behind her, no clue indicating the direction she had come. It was as though the young woman had simply dropped from the sky...

And her prognosis had not been good. It appeared she had suffered head trauma, the extent of which they could not ascertain, and that was the reason she remained unconscious. Authorities had contacted the hospital frequently at first, but as the days went by and she still had not awakened, they began to check less often. When there continued to still be no change in her condition, the doctors removed her respirator to allow nature to take its course, and when she lingered in spite the removal of life support, they had sent her to the county nursing home. Once there she was placed in Ward Four to languish, but she somehow didn't die.

Euthanasia was illegal, of course, in Britain, but due to the notoriety of the Bland case, there had been motions to seek the removal of her feeding tube. Thankfully, nothing had come of it. Despite the fact that her case was considered hopeless and that she was a complete ward of the state, no doctor would remove the tube without a court order-- no matter what his feelings on the subject. Because she had no relatives to petition the courts for such a decision, a legal guardian willing to do so would have to be assigned. It was a controversial decision, but preliminary attempts had been made.

Her escape had indeed been narrow, but only because so much had gone .mysteriously wrong. The official in charge of the paperwork had botched the job. Papers had been lost and records misfiled. The case had been temporarily forgotten, and then only sluggishly reopened. Medical workers lamented that they couldn't get the necessary authorization to put a suffering patient out of her misery, while administrators tutted over bureaucratic waste. But they knew the procedures. The proper orders had to come first, and while they waited for those orders the months dragged on. Then, inexplicably, she had opened her eyes...

Miss Emma's unexpected awakening gave everyone something to talk about. Staff discussed the case exhaustively. No one could understand how a comatose patient, one clearly in a vegetative state, could just "wake up" after two years time-- especially when brain scans had shown no activity at all-- but no one dared whisper the word "miracle." Anything controversial was best left unvoiced. The consensus was that she had been misdiagnosed and arguments issued over how it had been done and by whom.

Staff on both sides of the idealogical spectrum found endless grist for their mills. Euthanasia opponents used Emma's recovery as a case in point, and those in favor just sadly shook their heads. While they admitted that the girl's awakening was a wonderful thing, they regretted it was likely to set compassionate end of life care back for many years. The inmates simply rejoiced.

Life for the nursing home's perminant inhabitants was mostly rather dull. The only major happenings were usually negative, and patients were happy to have something positive to talk about. White heads bend together over the sides of wheelchairs. Games of checkers were interrupted. Walkers stumped with more energy and excitement as people hastened to discuss the particulars. There was an element of triumph too. No one looked forward to ending up in Ward Four and they regarded anyone who got out as having "beat the system." a system that was notoriously against them. Codgers and crones smiled and nodded sagely amongst each other. Conversations were of a typical note.

"Well Joe, here's one that's got away from 'em, and not a day too soon!" crowed Thadeus Carr to his checker buddy Joe Pines.

"Aye, but will they let her go without a fight, Taddy? They were all set to pull the plug on 'er! She's got a hard road ahead..."

Old Joe nodded in agreement. No one at Long Meadows Nursing Home believed the staff had their best interests at heart. A nursing home was the last stand. The patients were waiting to die, and all the workers were standing by waiting for signs of it. To fall and break a hip, for instance, was the kiss of death, since death usually followed swiftly. Of course why poor Emma had survived for so long was a mystery to them. The idea that it was all due to faulty paperwork was beyond their understanding.

None of the inmates had a problem believing in miracles. Lilly Jones was sure it was _her _prayers that had brought it about, though she was gently chided for trying to take all the credit. Gertrude Thackery, who fussed about the place trying to help (to the point where she seemed to feel she was part of the staff,) insisted it was the hours she had spent reading aloud in the Lost Ward that had actually done it.

"Read to them. Talk to them. They can all hear you, you know. I'm sure it did her good."

"So did my niece's prayer-shawl. I put it over her. She prayed every stitch."

"It wasn't her time to go. They won't take you if it isn't your time. The angels will send you back."

"There's work for her to do, you see. Something she has to accomplish."

"Could be she has family and they've been praying for her. Heaven hears the prayers of little children you know. I've always believed that. We don't know who she is, or who her people are. After all, her name isn't really Emma. She was someone else's before she was ours."

But no one knew whose she was, least of all "Emma" herself. She apparently didn't know who she was either...

In another part of the nursing home, thankfully no longer in Ward Four, a young woman lay in a hospital bed and gazed blankly about her. She didn't know she was the subject of endless patient gossip or ongoing, often heated, staff discussion. She had no idea her charts were being pored over with interest and that doctors from as far away as Australia and America were following her case with clinical fascination. This patient hadn't a clue as to what had happened to her or even how long she had been lying, near dead, in the nursing home. She certainly didn't realize she was a medical miracle.

The girl seemed ignorant of everything, having emerged from her coma in as fresh and unspoiled condition as if coming from a womb. Lying in her bed, she was first conscious only of the play of light flickering brightly upon the walls, the feel of crisp linen on the bed, the coolness of the soft breeze that played across her face, and the muffled whispers of voices somewhere outside her door. At first, such small things made up the boundaries of her world. They filled the void inside her with the beginnings of substance, fanning the sparking flames of her hunger for still more.

That there was more was something she knew instinctively, though cognitively she seemed to know nothing. She had no idea who she was or what she was-- let alone _where_ she was or how in the world she got there. Carefully, scientifically, she tested the limits of her boundaries. Eyes scanned the room about her, fingers and limbs twitched tentatively to define movement. Tactile sensations, however minor and trivial, were examined and cataloged. A butterfly was emerging from a chrysalis.

For the moment, nothing beyond this seemed to concern her as her thoughts seemed as void as the empty place she had come from. But she knew it would concern her soon. Her mind was already considering, probing, and comparing. Questions, unformed except for the fact of their being, bubbled and seethed in the background of her consciousness. These questions were important. They were vital to her existence. The only problem was, she didn't yet know what they were...

Until the questions took form, she could do little but wait. She listened to the breeze and the sounds of life around her. She felt the boundaries of her own body and quested beyond her to the limits of her world. She knew there was something beyond her, something she really did have to understand, but for now, the miracle patient who had beat all odds was simply content to Be.

_Author's Note: Please, please, please refrain from sending me flamers! I am NOT knocking the British medical system. I did do my research and I know that euthanasia is illegal in the UK. It is illegal in America too, but that doesn't mean feeding tubes don't get removed from comatose patients and well meaning doctors don't help things along-- with the dazed consent of the grieving families. I've seen it first hand-- on both sides of the family-- and the horrors are still fresh in my mind. I know that the idea of euthanasia-- in various forms-- is being hotly debated in both Britain and America. The Bland case I cited in the story was real. In America, we had Terry Schiavo... If I offend anyone by seeming preachy, I certainly didn't intend it. I can only tell you that watching someone you love die after having a feeding tube removed is an absolutely terrible thing._


	3. Scientific Curiosity

These characters and their setting are the property of J. Rowling and her associates and affiliates.

**Chapter 3: **_**Scientific Curiosity **_

The pile of exams seemed to mock Snape as he corrected them, their white pages a saucy invitation for his red ball point pen. None of the twerps appeared to have studied. The results of the first two had been so dismal that it seemed a waste of time to do the next eighteen. He sighed as he contemplated what nasty comment to bestow next, reaching his pen to the side of the desk, tapping it gently, and bringing it back over to the paper in front of him. Suddenly, he wondered why he had just done that.

Snape stopped his correcting and blinked for a minute. It occurred to him, oddly, that he always did this when he had a pen in his hand. He always tapped, or pretended to tap, the pen off to the side or in front of his paperwork when he wrote, and there was no reason at all for him to do this. It looked like a nervous tic of some sort, but why did he have a nervous tic? Was it some form of madness?

The idea of madness disturbed Snape, and all the more so because of his memory gaps. It bothered him that though he had a liscence to drive, he didn't trust himself to do it. It worried him that he had odd feelings and impressions that seemed to have no connection to the reality around him. He didn't like the fact that he felt so weirdly out of place-- as if he had woken from what he thought was a dream to what actually turned out to be the nightmare...

Madness did more than frighten him. It would mean he wasn't competent, wasn't trustworthy for his position. As much as he hated his current job, it was the only thing that gave his life purpose and meaning. Teaching was his identity. After all, if he wasn't a teacher, what else was he? But Snape was a determined, scientific man. He didn't dare be mad, and he just wouldn't allow it. Sanity was an attitude of mind, and he knew that attitudes were subject to will.

His scientific nature was actually a great comfort, and being able to analyze his situation reassured him. Mad people were completely blind to their condition. If he was crazy the odd things he did, thought, or felt would seem perfectly normal to him, and the fact that he could recognize these things as wrong-- as anomalies-- was _good._ It showed he was only troubled, not raving. Troubled certainly wasn't good, but crazy was definitely worse. And troubled could be fixed, could be conquered, could even, perhaps, be ignored. At that moment, however, Snape had decided not to ignore it. His interest was piqued.

_Why was he moving his pen like this?_ What reason could he possibly have? A simple nervous tic would suggest Obsessive Compulsive Disorder-- a condition which led people to do odd things without being able to help it. But Snape didn't have OCD. There were no other compelling patterns in his habits that suggested a life ruled by compulsion. He didn't wash excessively, arrange objects with anal precision, or follow empty, exacting rituals. Whatever problems Snape had-- and he knew he had plenty-- they didn't involve a hell such as that. This had to stem from something else.

The pen movements he had made suggested ingrained habit, an action produced subconsciously, not from any sort of mental compulsion. It would be similar to someone reaching for a pocket that was normally there while wearing clothes that lacked pockets. He considered the problem carefully. Perhaps if he tried an experiment, just relaxed and let his body do what felt natural...

With outward nonchalance, he proceeded with the process of grading papers, focusing on writing a comment on Adam Loring's Earth Science exam.

_Dismal. You obviously never opened your book! Glaciation happened thousands_

_of years ago, not hundreds, and it was NOT the cause of the Dark Ages in Europe. The_

_only dark ages are in your brain! F _

After he marked the plus sign after the large scrawled "F" his pen traveled automatically to the side again. It was a fluid gesture, not the jerky motion a tic would be. His hand moved naturally, as though it were a thing of long practice, and with efficient economy of motion, his fingers articulated the pen tip down and pointed it toward the desk top. The pen tip poked with a quick, deft peck, hovered for the split second necessary for the tip to jiggle slightly in mid air, and then came back to the paper. Snape stared at his hand.

He had seen somebody do that recently. _Where had he seen it? In a memory? In a movie? _Reach. Tap. Write. What had he been doing? He forced his hand to repeat the actions, following the same steps but more exaggerated, less automatic. Reach. Tap. Write... No, there was more. Reach. Point. Tap. Lift. Jiggle... _Jiggle? _Why jiggle?

A picture popped into his mind of a drop of ink, a drop of ink wiped onto the side of something. He remembered a scene from the movie "A Christmas Carol" wherein Bob Cratchit scratched on paper with a quill and then dipped it into a well of ink... Suddenly, Snape understood the gesture and he ogled his erring hand in a dumbfounded way.

How could it be? The notion was ridiculous, patently impossible, but it _was _exactly what he was doing. It didn't make any sense, there was no logical reason for it, but every time he wrote-- _every blasted time-- _Snape unconsciously mimicked the actions of a man using an old fashioned quill. But people hadn't used crow-quill pens now for close to a hundred years! How in the world was this action second nature to him? Was he reliving a past life? What in the world was wrong with him?

A knock sounded at the door and Snape collected himself quickly as Mr. Hanscomb, the school Head, leaned into the room.

"Have a minute, Alan?"

Snape stiffened automatically-- not only because he found his superior irritating and didn't want to be bothered, but more because the man used his first name. Snape didn't like his given name, and he wished people would just call him Snape. The Head, however, was impervious to any and all suggestions. He would do just the opposite of anything Snape wanted-- smiling all the time-- and there was nothing that could be done about it.

"Ah, good. Knew you'd be here. You're the hardest working teacher we have. But I won't disturb you too long. We need to talk about that last requisition you sent in-- the one with all those chemicals-- sulfuric acid and such."

"Yes? How soon will it arrive?" The problem of quills and ink was temporarily forgotten.

"The thing is, Alan, it won't. We didn't order it. There's no money for them just now. The budget can't afford it."

Snape was outraged. "The budget? What rubbish! What do you mean the budget can't afford it? Those chemicals are necessary! How can I teach chemistry, _to the standards of the curriculum, _without the proper materials?"

"I am sorry to disappoint you, but those really are the facts. Surely you can understand. We are a small, country school-- not Eaton or Harrow-- and we're not some swank London prep school either. We don't have the funding for all those nice little extras we want. We must be careful, realistic."

"_Careful? Realistic?"_ Snape fumed. "What about the fifty copies of Lovely Bones Loretta Finch ordered for her literature class? She should be teaching _Shakespeare, _not that rot, yet she got them. And what about all those new Rugby uniforms... and the brand new Cricket bats? Do we actually need those? We just got a ridiculous, oversized trophy case recently too. Tell me that's realistic! And don't forget the fluffy new furniture ordered for the Staff Room! Just _looking _at it makes me sick--"

"Oh it does, does it?" The Head looked peeved. "Well, that's a surprise consideringyou never step _into_ the Staff Room! How could you possibly have noticed any new furniture when all you do is hide in your office avoiding all the other teachers? Let me tell you Alan, there's more to teaching than standing at a blackboard. It's called cooperation, and you'd get along much better here if you'd remember it!"

The atmosphere had become sour, and Snape was made to feel again how much he didn't fit with the other teachers, something every one of them was quick to point out. Usually that didn't bother him since he didn't care much for their company. He saw most of them as placeholders, mediocre people who didn't try very hard. Principle, as well as his prickly nature, made courting their good will impossible-- not to mention the fact it would make him a suck-up. But the school Head was another matter. It was infuriating that he just didn't understand...

"The point is," Hanscomb continued, "that other departments besides yours have needs. The whole school has needs."

"The needs of the science department _always_ come last." Snape sounded bitter.

"Now that's not true and you know it. Your department got quite a bit of supplies this year. Didn't we get you that skeleton for your biology class? And those big, glossy pictures of the eye and the heart you asked for? We also bought you that case of formaldehyde too."

"Only because you wouldn't order us the _frogs_ we needed for dissection. I had to slog through all the local swamps to collect them myself, and we still didn't have enough! There were four students to every frog. Hardly anyone got any real experience."

The Head shrugged. "Oh come now, Alan. Is dissection really necessary? Couldn't they learn just as well from books? I think you're being a little obsessive here. Your predecessor never had such problems!"

Here Snape prudently refrained from unleashing his opinion. His predecessor had been well-liked and still lived in the community, but he had been an old, worn out instructor decades before retirement, and his teaching methods had been dismally out of date. It was no wonder the students had been so far behind when Snape had arrived a year ago.

He paused mentally. Was it a year ago? Or could it be two... even three... When _had _he actually come here?

Shaking his head as if to clear his confusion (and a tiny flicker of sudden, raw fear,) he tried hard to push down his ire so he could deal respectfully with his superior. Even if Snape didn't feel the man _was _his superior, Hanscomb was the school's Head. He attempted once more to make his point.

"With all due respect, Mr. Hanscomb, the entire point of science instruction is to teach scientific _thinking. _Yes it's important for students to read and memorize facts, but it is even more important for them to experiment. They need to discover and to test hypotheses-- or at least to see hypotheses tested in a concrete way they can actually be part of." He paused.

"Looking at a pictures of animal anatomy and dissecting that animal are two totally different things. A picture may not even register to a student, but a dissection always does. It brings biology home at a gut level so to speak. And the same is true of laboratory work in chemistry. Knowing an acid will react with something-- common table sugar, for instance-- and actually _seeing _it, smelling it, even hearing it, is a completely different thing. The experiment-- the demonstration-- makes science _real._"

Mr. Hanscomb's expression softened a little. "I understand you, Alan. Really, I do. And I applaud your efforts. You are a truly dedicated teacher, but you're trying too hard. You want to do everything all at once. Remember, Rome wasn't built in a day, and even _they _had a budget! I admit we're a bit behind, but given our current finances, catching up will take a while. In the mean time, we all will just have to make do. Now think about it. Isn't there some chemical you can use for an experiment right now-- something other than sulfuric acid? Lemon juice or vinegar, or something? When times get tough, the tough have to get creative, you know."

Snape sighed facing defeat. "I suppose there are experiments I can show them using _kitchen _chemicals, but it would be far better if--"

"Oh good! It's settled then. I knew an intelligent man like you would see the light. And it _is _only a temporary measure after all. We'll see about getting that acid next year." He took a step towards the door and then paused. "Say Alan. Why don't you join us at the pub tonight? Shall we look for you?"

Some sort of response was necessary and Snape felt the weight of expectation upon him. Why did they always ask him to the pub? He wasn't a pub person. Snape had nothing in common with the chatty sorts who frequented pubs, and he rarely ever drank. But they never understood and they always pressed him. And they always looked somewhat affronted when he declined. Now even his boss was doing it. It was damn hard to refuse a boss...

"Tonight... would not be good, Mr. Hanscomb."

"Oh, do call me Frank. No need for so much formality."

"Frank." Snape felt even more awkward. He didn't like informality with superiors any more than he liked pubs. "Perhaps another time. I have a _splitting _headache at the moment."

"So sorry to hear that. Another time then. Though I know what's causing your headache. You need to stop working so hard! Take a drink with some friends and get your head out of the books for a while."

"Perhaps when I don't already have a headache."

Hanscomb looked at him sadly, as though he was a lost cause, and shook his head. "Suit yourself, my boy. But I think you're making a mistake. Remember what I said about working too hard. You really need to loosen up. Here, have a lemon drop."

Snape suddenly shuddered. For a second, a feeling of unutterable sadness stabbed through him and he had no idea why. _And why in response to a lemon drop_? But in his minds eye, he suddenly had seen a glimpse of someone else offering him lemon drops, an old someone, someone whose face it hurt to see. Then the image disappeared and he was left with only a foolish feeling of confusion... and loss.

After Hanscomb left, Snape collapsed back into his chair. Why was he like this? He wasn't crazy. He wouldn't LET himself be crazy! There had to be a scientific explanation for all the weirdness that lurked inside him. And maybe Hanscomb was right-- perhaps it _was _overwork-- unless it was some forgotten past trauma that was poking through his subconscious. But what could it be? Snape bent over his exam papers again and doggedly x'd a few more wrong answers.

There were so many things he couldn't remember when he should and other things he "remembered" when such memories made no sense. There were a great many things that just seemed wrong to him. Take his name, for instance. Alan. It _was _his name. It was on all of his important documents, but it didn't really feel like it belonged to him or he belonged to it. Names were identities, things that should be deeply ingrained by his august age of forty, but Snape didn't feel his name was _him._

He couldn't be an Alan. Happy, smiling, good looking chaps were named Alan-- men who played football and drank genially in pubs; men who led normal lives in smart normal places, and owned all the proper normal things. The name just didn't fit a homely, miserable, discontented schoolteacher with bizarre inward tendencies. Snape should be called something like Ambercrombie, Ebenezer, or Archibald, not a normal, innocuous name like Alan.

The sound of his name felt foreign. There should be childhood memories of it, but there weren't. No ghostly echoes of: _"Alan dear. Dinner's ready." _or _"Alan! Hey Al! Meet you after class!" _lingered in his mind. Yet his name was Alan, and people called him by it. And every time they did, it always took him a second to realize they were talking to _him. _It was a crazy feeling. Absolutely crazy. Why did he have such crazy feelings?

How odd that Severin, his middle name, felt much more comfortable to him. He had tried at one time to encourage people to use it, even changing the placard on his door to read "A. Severin Snape", but they had all persisted in calling him Alan anyway. It was absolutely maddening.

Why did he prefer his middle name to his first? Had he been called by it as a child? But when he probed deep into his hazy memories, even Severin didn't really sound totally right. Was it _Sev _that they had used? The confusion over even this was disheartening.

With another exasperated sigh, he slashed some more nasty comments onto another failed test. Why did his memories feel so wrong to him? His name was Alan. He remembered it was Alan, and his middle name was Severin and had never been anything else. Why was he questioning it? He could remember where he had lived, the place he was supposed to have been born, where he had been to school, and where he had worked prior to this miserable, thankless job.

These were his memories. They were facts. For what reason was he more and more beginning to question them? Just because of some vague, disturbing feelings-- some odd, metaphysical hunches? Such things were stupid. They were a waste of his time and definitely not scientific. There was no real reason for him to question things he knew in his mind to be true. No logical reason at all.

Except that he had never to his knowledge used a crow-quill pen or an ink well, _and yet every time he wrote he absentmindedly tried to dip his ball point pen into a nonexistent well of ink!_ Except that he had strange flashes of memory that didn't match anything he had known or seen in his life. Perhaps he really should go and have a drink in the pub...

But that idea chilled him far worse than the thought of quill pens. He would never do that! Drinking didn't solve problems. It only made them worse. Pub goers might look like genial folk, but their lives could turn to garbage in the span of a heartbeat. Drink ruined and degraded a man, made him squander his money and lose his job. Alcohol caused men to neglect their families, to stay out all night until practically insensible, to stagger back later too pissed to remember which stinking hovel was theirs, and then arrive home in a stuperous rage where they would beat...would beat... _beat who? _

Where did these thoughts come from? Who did he know that had been beaten? Nobody in HIS life, surely! He had come from a tranquil home, a bland upbringing. There was nothing back in his past but average events. As far back as Snape could remember, it was boredom and monotony, sameness and tedium. And then he ended up teaching for a living. Why the sudden picture in his mind of drunkenness-- angry, violent drunkenness? It made no sense. It was another blasted mystery..

But Snape was getting tired of mysteries. And he wouldn't believe he was mad. It was time now to work on these "memories" and study them. Every effect had to have a cause. All that was-- even if it existed only in the mind-- had to come from something. There had to be a way solve the mysteries that plagued his everyday thoughts and feelings, and there had to be a way to conquer them. Unless he wanted to end up in a mad house, lost and disgraced, he would have to. Snape was going to investigate, and he would do so scientifically.

_Author's note: Following the first chapter, I received many, many messages concerning my outrageous portrayal of British schools. Please understand, the school in this story is NOT supposed to be typical of schools in England! It is supposed to be a below average school-- the worst school possible that poor Snape could be made to work in. _

_Now I'm not British. I'm American, and I'm perfectly willing to believe that the school systems overseas are probably better than ours. We in the States have grown a bit complacent and we don't push ALL of our children as hard as we could. But I am not willing to believe that every single English school district is a shining example of modern learning. Murphy's Law ensures that there has to be at least one, if not more, places that are sub-par. In every "modern" country there has to be pockets that time, and the march of progress have forgot. There has to be some schools in either poor country locals or inner cities that really need an overhaul. There have to be Spinner's Ends._

_I live in a semi-rural, former industrial, depressed little backwater just thirty miles from one of the high-tech beltways of the Northeast. Famous colleges abound all around us, but the public schools in my district are dismal. Spinners Ends really do exist! I'm simply creating one in this story somewhere in a nameless province of Britain... I'm sure it is nowhere near where you live!_


	4. Emergence

These characters and their setting are the property of J. Rowling and her associates and affiliates.

**Chapter 4: **_**Emergence **_

"Emma, dear. Come sit by me."

The young woman named "Emma" rose slowly from her seat next to R&R ( Mr. Robinson and Mr. Rosenberg,) and with careful, wobbly steps made her painful way over to Mrs. Atherton's wheelchair. She leaned her cane against a nearby park bench before sitting down.

"Can I get you something, Grace?" she huffed a little from the effort of walking and pushed away an errant bushy curl that the sea breeze kept blowing in her face. On this particular day the inmates-- those, of course, who were able-- were enjoying a nursing home outing, a picnic at a sunny little park by the sea. Emma reveled in the feel of the crisp, fresh air and bracing wind, but she had to watch her footing on the uneven, grassy ground. Some of the elderly walked better than she did.

"No, no. I don't need anything. Just wanted to talk with you... and to get you away from those silly old fools! Have they been flirting with you again?"

Emma laughed. "Flirting? Those two? Not with me!" She winked conspiratorially. "They've just been asking advice on how to get on with you!"

"Oh, go on! Mercy, child, the things you say! I never know when to believe you or not." Despite her chiding words, the woman's eyes gleamed with loving affection.

"Seriously, Grace. What they've really been telling me about is the Normandy landing. During D-Day, you know? Seems they both landed at Gold Beach at the same time, though in different units. Funny how they ended up here together. Looking at the sea over there made them both remember it."

She gazed at the ocean's bright, silver glint. It was odd how she knew so much about D-Day, the Blitz, and other important facts of history yet couldn't remember anything about herself. Emma actually envied the two old soldiers telling tales of their war years. After all, they could remember their lives while she knew nothing of hers. Sadly, at that moment she would have given a few years off of her own life to be able to remember her past-- even if the memories were bad.

"Oh I remember D-Day too!" the old lady added in an almost childish eagerness. "I had a brother went to Normandy. Landed at Sword Beach. And I danced with some nice American boys that went to Omaha. Most of them died there I think, but I still remember dancing with them. And flirting with them too. You'd never know it to look at me now, my dear, but in my day I was quite the dancer!"

"I bet you were, Grace." Emma's eyes traveled to her cane resting beside her on the bench. She wondered if she would ever be able to dance, and how long it would take before she could. She also wondered if she had ever danced before.

Old Mrs. Atherton noticed her looking at the cane and reached over a gnarled claw to pat her gently on the arm. "Don't you worry dear. It'll come in time. You're young and strong and you'll be dancing before you know it. Look how far you've come already! Just don't go dancing with those two old coots over there. They're way past it, even if they don't think they are!"

The young woman smiled at the encouragement from the dear old crone and squeezed her hand in return. Old Grace was right. She had to think positively. Just about anything could be accomplished with hard work and the right attitude. She had to keep working. She had to keep trying. If she did that then one day she might be back to normal... she might even get back her memories.

It had taken long months of intense physical therapy to get her to the point where she could actually walk again. Atrophied muscles and shortened tendons from two years of complete inactivity had left her virtually helpless. In the beginning even just sitting upright had been an ordeal. With desperate determination Emma had set out to regain as much as she could of what had been lost. She had given it everything she had.

At first she had needed other hands to move her limbs and stretch her stiff, frozen muscles, and every step of her recovery had been dauntingly, excruciatingly painful. But no matter how painful it was, Emma had never given up. The girl had worked as hard as she could, harder than the staff had expected her to, and had carefully, doggedly made progress. She fought hard to regain her strength, holding on to every little victory, pushing, pushing, always pushing for still more. She flexed and exercised her limbs and joints, repeating movements even as she waited for sleep. She asked question after question to all involved in her care so as to understand all the processes in her rehabilitation. She ate healthy food, even when she felt little appetite, and took advantage of fresh air.

As the long months advanced, she had moved from a bed to a wheelchair, and then from wheelchair to walker. Presently she had progressed from walker to cane, and was eagerly working on leaving even that. Though she had no personal memory of walking, running, or jumping as she must have once done, she had a sense within her that her body remembered these things was was eager to relearn them. She felt frustrated with the halting movements and helpless clumsiness caused by her weak limbs and shaky lack of balance.

Looking about her at the beautiful natural scene, Emma wished she could run across the green, windswept field with her arms out-stretched like a child pretending to fly. She wished she could splash about in the sparkling waves and jump from rock to rock on the shore. She wished she could twirl around like a fairy dancer with her hair blowing out about her and her skirt billowing in the breeze. She also wondered if any of those images had come from some unregistered memory that was buried deep and which refused to come out. She surely couldn't remember ever actually doing any of those things. Perhaps she had only seen pictures of them somewhere.

"Are you cold, child? That breeze has a bit of a nip in it."

"No," Emma answered coming out of her reverie. "But how about you? Do you feel a chill?"

"Oh, perhaps a tad. Could you get me my blanket from behind my chair and put it on my legs for me?"

Emma suspected this had been part of the purpose for the old lady calling her over but she didn't really mind. She loved doing things for the inmates at the nursing home. All of them had been so good to her, and she had already observed that the staff were somewhat slow to attend them. She smiled as she pulled out the faded old afghan and spread it comfortably over the woman's thin, bony knees. It was such a small thing to do, and it made her so happy. Emma like to think she was putting a little joy into someone else's life.

"That's lovely, dear. So nice and warm."

"How is your back? Should I raise your pillow up a little for you?"

"If you would, thank you. What a dear, you are!"

Emma beamed at her and the woman smiled back. The young girl was sort of a pet among them all, someone young and vital whose condition they all were interested in. From the day it had been announced that the poor girl had miraculously "awakened" they had followed her progress with avid interest, talking amongst themselves eagerly over every aspect of her case. It seemed as though the entire nursing home had adopted her.

Of course, life in a nursing home was rather stilted. Most of the inmates had nothing to do and little else to talk about except the trivialities of daily life. They talked about the weather, the food, which one of them had had visitors, or whatever was lately on the telly. None of them had much to look forward to except more of the same, unless it was the darker aspects of aging. Having someone young to care about was a welcome diversion that added interest to their days. It was also a pleasant change to see someone getting progressively better instead of progressively worse-- far better than the dull sameness of decay. All the inmates rallied around Emma. They regarded her recovery as partly their doing.

Never did a young woman have a more fulsome army of Uncles and Aunties, each one competing for her attention and regard. They encouraged her. They cheered her. They gave her advice, sympathy, and prayers. So many of them reveled in the chance to once more be useful, to pet and care for someone-- or, adversely, to have someone to listen to them. And the attention they gave her actually seemed to help. Young Emma seemed to bloom under all the love and care they showered upon her. And she gave back to them sevenfold for all the love they gave her.

The young woman brightened life for everyone at the nursing home. She brought energy and bounce into any room she entered, even if laboring to enter with walker or cane. Emma had drive and steel-hard optimism, and her brightness was contagious. She greeted everyone with a smile always—even when it was obvious that she was troubled concerning her recalcitrant limbs or her continual lack of memory. She still contrived to maintain a positive attitude and was almost always thoughtful of the people around her. It was a breath of fresh air.

None of them knew knew the quiet darkness she kept hidden from them, the haunting sense of incompleteness, the frightening feeling lostness that colored her waking hours. She worked diligently not to show any of it because she didn't want to trouble anyone or seem ungrateful. Tears, moping and complaining wouldn't help, and Emma had a feeling, though from where she couldn't actually say, that there had already been too much pain caused to too many people. She didn't want to be the cause any more. It was best to stay positive, to brighten those in her corner, and for that reason she was reluctant to share her burden.

Emma had to believe, she just _had _to believe, that time would eventually sort things out, that just as her body had responded slowly to therapy, her mind would respond as well. Surely with more time her memories would come back to her. They had to. She just had to believe. Otherwise she would continue to exist in this half life, this frightening limbo forever...

She gazed pensively again at the glinting waves. If only her memories could be triggered by something as simple as the sea. If only her own "war stories" would return to her as those of the old soldiers' did. If only she knew who she _was. _Perhaps there were people waiting for her, people who cared for her and were worried about her. Perhaps there was a man waiting for her who wanted her for his own...

Or, then again, perhaps there wasn't. Emma knew there had been numerous inquiries made concerning her identity, and she knew that none of them had been fruitful. That didn't appear to be a good sign. If there were people who were looking for her, they either weren't trying very hard or they weren't going about it the right way. She had to face the possibility that she might really have no one, and that the past had been just as dismal for her as the present.

More dismal, actually. Here, in the nursing home, Emma had friends. No matter what her past was, no matter when-- if ever-- she regained her memory, here she had people who cared for her. And she wouldn't let them down. She would face whatever life handed her with a brave face. And who knew, maybe what happened to her would turn out to be a good thing. Maybe this was her new start in a life that had formerly been unhappy. All Emma knew was that whatever happened, she needed to stay positive, and something inside her simply refused to do anything else.


	5. Whistle While You Work, sort of

These characters and their setting are the property of J. Rowling and her associates and affiliates.

**Chapter 5: **_**Whistle while You Work, or sort of... **_

Snape cursed under his breath as the screwdriver slipped, made a gouge next to the screw he was supposed to be driving, and caused his knuckles to slam against the side of the bookcase he was attempting to put together.

"Bugger!" he swore through clenched teeth as he paused to suck his scraped and bleeding hand. "Sod this bloody screwdriver! Sod this bloody bookshelf! Sod this whole blasted, bloody world!"

He was having an extremely frustrating day.

After months of accumulating scientific books, only to have them pile up messily about the walls of his bedsitter, Snape had broken down and purchased some bookshelves. Cheap ones. And that was the problem. These bookshelves had to be assembled, and Snape found it extremely bothersome (and a little frightening too) that he hadn't realized beforehand that the shelves he had ordered would need to be put together. For some reason it had just never occurred to him.

And why should it have? Shelves were _wood, _weren't they? Weren't wooden things made by carpenters? Didn't they get nailed together in shops? At least that was the way it was _supposed _to be. Obviously today's world was no longer normal or rational, and Snape had been stunned and exceedingly exasperated when his two precious new storage units had arrived boxed up and in pieces. Were all the bloody carpenters not doing their jobs anymore?

But then again the shelves weren't actually made out of wood... It appeared that the monstrosities he'd bought were composed of an aggregate that _might_ originally have come from trees, but that was about as close as they came. Snape shook his head in disgust as he examined them. The pasted-on vinyl veneer of simulated woodgrain looked ridiculous. And honestly, why even bother? Trying to make the stupid things appear better than they were gave them a cheap, tawdry look. Much like his cheap, tawdry life. Too bad it was all he could afford.

There were instructions that had come with the shelves-- two pages of carefully detailed diagrams-- but Snape had still found it difficult. He had no problem understanding the diagrams. He was a scientific man after all. He could fully comprehend how the various pieces had to go together. It was only the _process _that was so hard for him as he seemed to have had no past experience with assembling things. _It was as though he had never used a screwdriver before! _

Snape did, of course, knew how to use a screwdriver. He understood the principle. But oddly enough, he didn't seem to have any concrete memories of himself using one, which was bizarre-- and unsettling. And it didn't make any sense. Snape was forty years old and, by now, should have acquired experience with tools. He should have had plenty of occasions to wield hammers, saws, chisels, and drills, let alone simple screws and screwdrivers. But he hadn't. And he _knew_ he hadn't.

It was weird. Snape certainly had knowledge of hand tools. He could understand their function in his mind, but in his hands there was no practical memory. His fingers when he tried to wield them were clumsy and stupid. He had none of the grace and sure precision with this screwdriver that he had in dissecting a frog, and it had taken him a full five minutes just to figure out how to _hold _the blasted thing. A child could use it better than he could.

"Bugger and blast," he muttered as he twisted the tool again and again, wincing as a twinge of pain announced itself in his shoulder.

He supposed it might have been easier had he purchased a power screwdriver. After all, the diagrams did show the use of a gun-like thing that ran on electricity, but Snape shuddered a little at the thought of that. If he sucked this bad with hand tools, how much damage he could do with electric ones? He might screw a hole through his finger... or make a lovely new aperture in the wall! How would he explain that to the landlord? The last thing he wanted was to look like a bloody fool. No, hard as it seemed to be for him, he'd keep struggling through it the manual way.

But it was odd how just the thought of power screwdrivers, power drills, power hammers, and electric saws made Snape nervous. Such things didn't feel natural to him, and that made him even more nervous. Why should he feel almost _afraid_ of electric devices? Wasn't that a little crazy? Electric tools were scientific things, technical items, and he was a scientific man. He understood the theory behind them. Still, despite his technical knowledge, he would rather sweat buckets fumbling with a hand screwdriver than buy a power one... or seek to borrow one from a neighbor. Well, he certainly didn't wish to have anything to do with his neighbors...

The screwdriver slipped again, and Snape almost threw it. Why did everything have to be so frustratingly awkward? Why couldn't there be a simple way to do things without these stupid, bloody tools? Why couldn't people just _think _things into being-- use the power of their minds? Now _that _would be the perfect solution for everything, the cleanest, easiest, and most efficient way to accomplish every task. No mess. No bother. Just visualize what you want and _make _it happen!

Suddenly that really seemed to Snape like the most natural idea in the world, and for a moment he almost tried it. For one tiny second he almost attempted to turn the screw he was working with by sheer mental will. Thankfully though, he stopped himself just in time, beads of sweat having no relation to physical labor rolling down his back as he froze in startled horror. _What the Hell had he almost done?_ He couldn't do something like that. It was crazy. Absolutely crazy! He really had to watch himself. If he didn't, he'd end up in an asylum...

Snape paused carefully to calm and collect himself. What in the world _had _he been thinking? And why had it seemed so rational, so practical, so _real? _It shouldn't have! There was no known WAY people could do things simply by thinking about them. And he knew this! Where would he have gotten such a notion? And to actually consider _trying _it... Snape shivered as if his cold sweat had chilled him to the core.

That had been the worst part of it, the part that really scared him. It was one thing to have crazy thoughts and crazy memories now and then. Lots of people had those and were still functionally normal. But to act upon those thoughts was to cross the line. People who DID what their crazy minds told them were insane, and Snape was determined _not _to be insane. He wasn't. He wouldn't be! Alan Severin Snape was a scientific, rational man. He was NOT a nut case! He was tired. Just tired, that was all. He needed more sleep. It had to be the fault of all those bloody nightmares he'd been having...

Snape finished torquing in the screw and started fitting the last of the bloody screws for the shelf. One set of cheap, flimsy bookshelves was almost finished. Then all he'd have was another hour or so of frustration in putting together the other one. But perhaps he would leave that for another day. He really was getting tired.

For the past few weeks, Snape had been plagued by nightmares-- and not the usual run-of-the-mill dreams people had of monsters coming at them, being horribly lost, or even of falling from great heights. Always in his nightmares was the face of the Old Man-- the man his boss often reminded him of when he was trying to feed him lemon drops. In his dreams, the Old Man was always looking at him in a pleading way, and then right after that, the poor man was dead.

Who was this strange man? Was he his father or his grandfather? But no, that couldn't be. Snape had memories of a father and a grandfather, and they didn't look like that. The memories were hazy whenever he tried to concentrate on them, but then again, ALL his memories became hazy whenever he tried hard to concentrate on them. That was one of the things that caused him anxiety. Was the Old Man a friend of his? Had he ever actually _had _a friend? And what had happened to him? In the nightmares the Old Man always died. He died surrounded by a sickening green light, and he always lay broken and still on a stone courtyard pavement or on a cold slab in a crypt.

A shiver assaulted Snape as he fitted the little plastic brackets into the properly provided holes in order to set up the removable shelve planks for his books. How he wished he knew who the Old Man was. He wished he knew why he always felt so _guilty_ as well as bereft whenever he thought of him. What was the significance of this man in his life? If the Old Man was someone so important to him that he would mourn him upon his death and even feel guilt concerning it, surely he should be able to remember him!

But try as he might, no matter how far back Snape examined his memories, there was no evidence at all of this Old Man. And yet he _knew _he had known him somehow, somewhere. He knew that this person had been real. He felt certain that the Old Man in his nightmares was an actual memory. He just found himself unable to remember him. Was this yet another form of insanity?

He put up the last of the shelf panels and cast a glance at all the piles of tomes leaning precariously against the walls. Unfortunately, it looked as though he would have to put the other bookshelf as well. He had just too many books to fit on only one. Snape looked critically at all the walls of his bedsitter, and calculated by proxy how many books, that he'd be able to fit in it. He mused that with shelves covering all the walls, the dingy little room might actually feel like home. It would look far less cold, bare, and uninviting.

As far as Snape was concerned, any room would look better lined with books. Hell, he even contemplated rigging up some sort of shelving to fit over the doors as well as the walls. Any why not? It would make the place feel like a sanctuary, a comfortable, bibliophilic padded cell. It would be a place of escape from all the uncultured, unread idiots he seemed to be surrounded by here. He was certain that some of these people didn't even _own _a book!

"Well," he muttered to himself darkly, screwdriver resolutely in hand, "let's get this over with. Better the hell now than the hell later. Though, I suppose, it will be coming for me later on anyway. It _always _does." He scowled at the remaining cardboard box of disassembled particle board and refrained from aiming a kick at it. "Sodding, cheap, flimsy construction... It might as well be garbage."

Much later, Snape gazed at the double row of filled bookshelves. Now that he had a place to put all his books, they didn't seem so very many as when they'd been messily cluttering up the floor. Surely, he had had more books than this at one time. He truly seemed to remember once having quite a lot of books, but he couldn't put his finger on the actual memory, or where or when that could have been. What he felt sure of was that they had existed somewhere in his past, somewhere in a past far different from the flat, ordinary memories that hung like paste-board posters in his mind. Could he have had a different past? _A different past... Was such a thing possible? _

That there was something behind those dim, drab mental posters, he was sure of. Being sure, however, didn't get him any closer to actually remembering anything. It only created a growing sense of unease and discontentment, a growing sense of displacement. It seemed that there should be something more to his life than there actually was. He just didn't know what, and he felt desperate at times to discover it.

Why was his life so dull and pointless? Other people seemed happy, so why couldn't he be? Surely it had to be a mistake that he was in such a frustrating, unsatisfying position, that he continually felt that he didn't belong. The fact that he always had a sense that he should be doing something important, or that he had forgotten something crucial had to be more than just a silly fancy.

Perhaps the Old Man who haunted his dreams was the key to it. Maybe if he could figure out who this person was, it would lead him to the rest of his answers. But how in the world was he supposed to do that? Snape almost looked forward to another one of his blasted nightmares simply so that he could have a chance to analyze and study it. He just needed to understand about the sad Old Man and why he kept seeing him in his mind. It might be the key to understanding himself. Or just understanding _something _of all the crazy things that were bothering him.

Snape sighed in exasperation and put away his tools. The fact was he would most certainly dream of the Old Man eventually because no matter how disturbing it had lately become, he couldn't avoid sleep. He was exhausted enough at that moment to drop off where he stood! Soon, very soon, he would have to return to that troubled plain of unconsciousness where he would again meet that blasted Old Man-- and see him die, and there was nothing at all he could do about it. Nothing he could do except to face it head on and hope that this time would bring on a glimmer of understanding. Or perhaps this time would bring a blessed nothing... Either way he had to hope. There was nothing else he could do.


	6. Best Wishes

These characters and their setting are the property of J. Rowling and her associates and affiliates.

**Chapter 6: **_**Congrats and Best Wishes **_

"Congratulations!"

"God bless you, sweetheart!"

"Good Luck to you, Luv."

Voices around the table croaked, rasped, wheezed and warbled. Withered faces that were white haired or white bearded beamed sometimes toothlessly as they wished their Emma well on her last day with them. Even those that looked vague and confused still smiled along with the rest. They were having a party after all. A party with _cake. _In nursing home life such things were few and far between. Every inmate wanted to make the most of it, and they all loved the fact that their Emma was the cause.

"Hip hip hoorah!" piped up old Mr. Henshaw, who was always a little behind everyone else. "Best wishes and all that rot!"

"Oh, yes dear," added Annie Wexley, who was closest to where Emma was standing, clutching one of the girl's hands in her thin, cold, veiny ones. "Good luck out there. But don't forget us, now! We'll miss you so."

Emma's eyes misted over as she looked at the tableau of well wishers and cheer. The Common Room had been decorated with streamers and balloons. A large, white sheet cake decorated with pink and blue frosting, with little pink frosting roses, graced the long white-shrouded table. Happy blue icing spelled out the words, "Good Luck Emma," and a pile of pretty wrapped presents lay on the table by the side.

Oh, how she too would miss everyone! It was hard to say goodbye to the old Aunties, Uncles, Grannies, and Grandpops knowing she would probably never see any of them again. They all felt like family to her, the only family she now actually had. She knew there was a possibility that she had real family outside of this nursing home, but she had no concrete way of knowing it. No intimate memories of her former life had ever come back to her. She still had no idea who she was.

"Blow out the candles, dear," suggested Mary Shaw, one of the Aides who were supervising the party. She gave Emma an encouraging smile while she poured apple juice into the cheap plastic wine goblets purchased for the occasion. It had to be apple juice, of course. No one would ever serve wine in a nursing home. "We'll do you a toast while you're cutting the cake."

"Yes! Let's have some cake!"

"Hear, hear! Cake!"

There were three candles burning on Emma's cake-- two for the two years she had been vegetative in the "D" Ward, and one extra for the almost year it had taken her to recover. Emma took a breath and blew the candles out. It was a final symbolic gesture, and it drove home to her the fact that she was really leaving. Tomorrow she was really going out.

It was, of course, time for her to leave. The nursing home couldn't really keep her. She was no longer disabled, she wasn't sick, and she certainly wasn't elderly. Emma still hadn't retrieved any personal memories, but at this point that fact was somewhat moot. Lack of memory was not a reason to keep a person living at state's expense. She would have to go out, get a job and support herself, and thereby help support the state. And she couldn't even stay on as a nursing home worker. She didn't have an official nursing degree.

Her lack of credentials had caused some worry. The nursing home just couldn't kick the girl onto the streets-- not the "miracle" patient who had come back almost literally from the dead. There had been hope that by the time she had recovered physically she would also have recovered her memory, but so far the memories Emma possessed had not helped to place her. She still had no idea who she was or what she had done prior to her accident. She still had no idea what accomplishments or degrees she held. No one had a clue as to what sort of work would best suit her-- or even pay enough to keep her. Still, despite these daunting handicaps, they had found her a job in the end-- a position as a secretary at a regional country school. The problem for Emma was that it was so many miles away.

Emma began cutting her cake into neat, manageable squares, Miss Shaw and the other aides helping her hand them out. The inmates consumed their cake with eager gusto, and the aides were soon bustling to clean up the table and place Emma's gifts on it. It was obvious the staff wanted to get the party over with as quickly and efficiently as possible. Festivities had to end in time for Evening Meds.

"Open mine first!" shrilled a tiny old lady in a faded blue shawl. "It's the one with a pink bow on it. I made it myself!" She pointed at it with a gnarled, brown finger.

A couple of crones muttered and whispered as Emma picked up the preferred present with a smile. Everyone would have wanted their gift to be opened first and were a little put out that Sarah Jones had the temerity to push herself forward like that, but all the commotion died down quick enough as all the gifts began to be opened.

Emma smiled and exclaimed over every present and held them high for all to see. None of the gifts could be considered fine or valuable since few of the residents had any money. They had given her whatever they could-- hand knitted items, trinkets made in OT, or perhaps little keepsakes hoarded from younger days. There were a few patients who had visiting family buy them things for them to give her, better things than could be made in-house, but Emma didn't show any distinction between her gifts. Mr. Amberly's crude decoupage pill box received just as much thanks as Mr. Robinson's store bought daily planner. The handmade shawls, mittens and hats caused just as much joy as the boxes of candy and bottles of perfume. None of the inmates were made to feel badly over their lack of means. Emma was particularly kind that way.

"You _will _write to us, won't you dear?" asked Mrs. Ernshaw hopefully.

"Oh, of course!"she promised. "I'll send you all a card the very first week."

"And let us know when you remember things," put in someone else. "We all want to know who you really are."

Didn't everyone. And no one more than Emma herself.

The gaps in Emma's memory had caused endless comment and speculation amid those concerned with her therapy. Her particular form of memory loss was odd. While it was true that head trauma patients didn't always regain their lost memories, for those that did, it was usually done piecemeal. Memories trickled in gradually, returning here and there, even though sometimes they did dawn suddenly, all in one fell swoop. No two patients recovered at the same pace, but it was extremely strange for someone to regain only one type of memory and to consistently keep to that pattern no matter how far therapy progressed.

None of the memories that Emma had regained were personal. She recalled nothing whatsoever of her own past, not a single instance of her history, yet she remembered just about everything else. The girl seemed to know every book she had ever read, every movie she had ever watched, and every fact she had ever heard, seen, or learned. She was a veritable fountain of information, a library of processed data. The problem was, none of that data related to herself in any meaningful way, and she couldn't even remember how she had acquired all the knowledge she seemed to have.

It was uncanny and frustrating. Emma's therapists had been confident at first that the impersonal memories would trigger something deeper eventually, but it never happened. They had pursued every method of treatment. They had done word and picture association; they had tried role playing; they had practiced meditation, hypnosis, and even aromatherapy, but all to no avail. No glimmer of insight into her true identity had ever occurred. Emma's mind had persisted in personal ignorance. The therapist had finally resigned in defeat.

Of course, no one was more frustrated than Emma herself. She WANTED to remember. It was frightening to have no memories of her own life to anchor her and she felt continually lost. There was an emptiness within her, a hollowness in her soul that needed to be filled. She needed an identity, a past. That was the only way to feel completely human. She wanted to know that there was someplace she really belonged. Besides, she wanted to know her purpose in life. Despite her irritating ignorance, she sensed that she had a purpose, that there was something vital she needed to do. Somewhere, she was certain that there was somebody who needed her. She didn't want to let them down.

She tried as hard as she could to remember something, put her whole heart into complying with any treatments, however bizarre, that her therapists suggested. But none of it got her anywhere closer to her goals. No important memories ever surfaced. She could remember books she had read, but not when she had read them. She remembered television shows and movies, but not who she might have watched them with. She could remember all sorts of facts, but not where she had learned them. Months and months of intensive therapy added no breakthroughs at all.

Emma had meditated. She had drawn pictures. She had listened to music, sniffed a battery of scents, and had tried every trick modern science had at its disposal, but all she had retrieved at the end of it all was facts-- an avalanche of facts-- and it had almost brought her to despair. What good did it do to remember all this impersonal information if none of it had any meaning? And why did she know so much anyway? So far, all she had learned from all this was that learning had once been very important to her. But what about everything else that was important to her? What about the rest of her life? She would have traded all the facts in the world for a single valid memory, something to make her real. Something to make her whole.

It was crazy. Really crazy. Her memories didn't make any sense. Emma could do higher maths-- calculus and beyond-- but she didn't know what year she was born. She could recite the name of every monarch in British history, but she couldn't recall if she'd ever had a boyfriend. She could read Latin and Greek with incredible fluency, but she couldn't remember her mother's voice. She knew philosophy and poetry from the ancient Greeks through modern times, yet couldn't tell if she had ever done anything _fun. _

Emma did feel a little stab of pride that she had so much knowledge, but she would have much rather have remembered a family and some friends. The whole thing was more than tragic. All her best pieces were missing. Who cared now that she knew all this stuff when she didn't even know herself? Emma felt more than simply handicapped. She felt she was missing most of her soul. 

For a while, the therapists were encouraged by all the knowledge Emma displayed. They felt certain that it would provide a clue to her identity. After all, the girl wasn't just educated. She was _highly _educated, and her accent and idioms of speech were cultured. It was obvious to everyone that she came from good people-- an upper class, or professional class family-- and it was also obvious she had gone to a very good school. Inquiries had then been made.

Letters with Emma's picture and description in them were sent out to every first class school-- public, private, and parochial-- in the hopes that someone would recognize her and help them find her family. It seemed to them that no former student as bright as Emma obviously was could fail to leave a lasting impression. Sadly, however, there had been no affirmative reply. No school in Britain, Scotland, or Ireland had ever heard of her. No teacher or headmaster remembered her. Again, it was though she had dropped fully educated out of thin air from some alternate dimension. No one in this world wanted to own her.

For Emma, this was particularly chilling. She felt as though she had stepped out of one of those old black and white Twilight_ Zone _episodes (which, maddeningly, she could remember every detail!) It was as if she had never existed-- as if she had no _right _to exist. Everybody had someone, or had once had someone, but Emma was a nobody, a real "nowhere girl." In a world where people were placed, and often judged, by who they knew or where they had been, she would be forever disadvantaged. She had no credentials or references. She didn't even have a medical history. Others could enjoy a comfortable web of connections, but Emma was completely on her own. If only she could just stay here in this nice safe place! Why did they have to make her leave?

Her shiver at the prospect of facing a new job muffled by her bleak shroud of aloneness was broken by bumbling steps nearby. It was old Mr. Rubinstein, followed closely, as always, by Mr. Robinson, the two of them hobbling amiably in her direction with their canes.

"Come give us a kiss you pretty thing! We're sure going to miss you."

"Hey! Watch yourselves, you old coots!" warned Mrs. Atherton shrilly from her wheelchair. "Remember she's just a babe after all. No hanky panky!"

"Aw, go on!" one of them said, giving Emma a chaste little peck on the cheek and a vague sort of pat on her back. "You're just jealous we're not kissing you!"

"Hmph! Like I would let you. Old geezers!"

"Any time. Old bat!"

"Daft codgers"

"Silly crone."

Emma noticed that in spite of their nasty words they were all smiling at each other.

She sighed. Despite the fact she loved them all, Mrs Atherton and the two old men known as "R&R" really did belong here and she didn't. Even if she never found the place she had come from or the people who had once been part of her life, it truly was time she left the nursing home. She couldn't just hide, even if she wanted to, in this comfortable, familiar nest. She had to try. She had to keep fighting. And if she never remembered anything at all, she had to face that and build a new life for herself, no matter what that life was.

Emma took a deep breath. Deep down inside, she knew she wasn't a coward. And besides, if a nursing home could become a comfortable place for her, surely there were other places she could find friends. And, she told herself as reassuringly as she could, her new job was in a school. That had to be good. It was obvious that she liked learning, so she would probably find it enjoyable. She might even get back some memories. She just had to see this as an opportunity-- and it was. She just had to keep smiling.


	7. Breaking and Entering

These characters and their setting are the property of J. Rowling and her associates and affiliates.

**Chapter 7: **_**Breaking and Entering **_

There was no moon, and the schoolyard was shrouded in pitch, but Snape had little trouble finding his way in the dark. His eyes, for some lucky reason, seemed to function well in low light, and besides, he didn't need to see that clearly to find the school building and the proper door to get in. This area was secluded, and the darkness perfect cover. Stands of trees hid the school from casual view, yet even if someone else had been watching it was still doubtful he would have been seen. Swathed in a voluminous Renaissance-style cloak, which he had purchased especially for the occasion, there was nothing of Snape that would show in the gloom.

And that was good. Snape was determined this evening to get some answers-- answers he didn't want anyone to know he was looking for. He was going to do some snooping that would be impossible for for him to do by day. The lonely sounds of night birds and a car horn beeping somewhere in the distance made him shiver, and a breeze gusted the hood of his cloak while he fumbled for the emergency key all teachers had. He couldn't help a tiny pang of nervous tension. This had better work.

The key turned and Snape breathed a sigh of relief. He had never actually used his master key, and he wasn't sure it would open all the doors in the building. He still had to get into where all the files were kept; that was the whole purpose of this mission. But even if the key didn't work, he still had back-up. Carried in his other pocket was a twisted bit of metal he _knew _could jimmy locks. Odd how he seemed to know that, since he couldn't remember ever running with thieves, but the ability to pick locks _would_ be useful tonight. Stealthily, he entered the school and carefully made his way to the Head's office.

Rummaging through the file cabinets, shining his torch into the contents, Snape wasn't really sure what he was looking for. Somewhere in this maze of mismatched, sometimes antiquated cabinets and drawers, there had to be files filled with data on school employees. There had to be a file, or files, about _him, _something concrete and had come here to discover the paper trail of his past. He wanted to examine it-- all the names, dates, numbers, and records. Snape wanted to see his references.

In the last few weeks, his strange feelings and impressions had been getting progressively worse. The episodes of oddness seemed to come upon him almost daily. Now it wasn't just one or two faces that struck him as being eerily, soul-joltingly familiar, it seemed to be almost everybody. Just about all the people he ran into on a day-to-day basis generated some sort of weird response in him, and it happened over and over. Countless mundane interactions triggered something inexplicable in his gut, even if those feelings were only slight.

The middle aged lunch-woman with the severely pulled back hair made him want to wince with nervousness-- as though he feared her censure. The platinum blond youth in the fourth form made him feel protective even though he didn't actually like him. Lots of faces caused him bad reactions, from the rather intelligent round-faced boy that he felt _sure _was an idiot, to the moronic second form twins who he was positive were plotting diabolical mischief. But the worst, the absolute _worst, _was the pretty little red head, only fifteen years old, that made him feel like miserable shite every time he saw her. _As though she had broken his heart. Or once, long ago, someone just like her had... _

What exacerbated his problem and intensified his distress was that his other memories-- his _real _memories-- were becoming harder to recall. The closer Snape looked at them, the harder he tried to examine them, the more and more indistinct they became. And this was the part that really alarmed him. These memories were his _identity. _They were who and what he was. How could he fight the rising tide of madness that was threatening to overtake him if he didn't have a strong identity for an anchor? What would happen to him if he lost whatever was left of himself? What would he do then?

Was there a disease, a mental illness that only attacked memory? Snape knew of Alzheimer's and schizophrenia, but didn't think that those diagnoses would really fit him. Victims of those horrors didn't usually know they were afflicted, at least not in the way that he knew. Snape was _aware _of his suffering. He wasn't deluded into thinking reality was something different from what it obviously was. He was troubled by his odd thoughts; he didn't actually believe them. And as for Alzheimer's, that disorder merely _destroyed_ memories. It didn't somehow create new ones. Unless, of course, he had both maladies and the new "memories" were only delusions...

But Snape wasn't willing to believe that. There was rationality even to madness. Mental illnesses had causes-- physical brain malfunctions; chemical imbalances, deficiencies, or poisonings. Often they came from some sort of emotional trauma. Such sad conditions had treatments, even cures. Snape resolutely comforted himself with the knowledge that even a diagnosis of madness need not be the end. If he was losing it there _were_ ways by which he could fight. Still, he wasn't going to believe he was crazy until he had all the facts in front of him-- especially when his gut told him that he wasn't crazy at all.

Snape continued searching through the office, poking through cabinets, and opening drawers. As he rummaged about, he accidentally came across some maliciously damning clues that suggested Mr. Hanscomb was diverting school funds, and he smiled at that in wolfish surprise. Oh, amazing! Who knew? _And why did one always find such really good stuff while looking for something else? _He didn't let it slow his personal search, of course, but he did make an effort to watch for further developments. Any dirt he could get on his boss would always be useful. Besides that, he found it extremely amusing since Hanscomb was often a royal, flaming irritant. A small metal cabinet next to the Head's desk was locked.

Bingo.

His teacher's key, of course, didn't work on the sealed file cabinet, but lock pick did. Snape carefully inserted the wire into the lock, jiggled it gently, and by an instinct he couldn't explain, managed to twist it by feel until the lock sprang open. He couldn't suppress a grin at this accomplishment. _What was he, a jewel thief in a past life? _But at that thought the grin instantly faded and shivers of horror danced across his skin. Was it possible that this frustrated existence was actually a form of punishment? What sort of evil could he have done? But no. That was foolish. Reincarnation was silly. It was metaphysical hogwash, and Snape didn't believe in such things. He was a rational man.

The picked lock opened up all three drawers of the cabinet, and Snape dug into the pay dirt. The top drawer had the teacher employment records that he had been looking for, but the other two (that he checked out from sheer curiosity, of course) contained the rest of the evidence of the Headmaster's embezzlement. Snape smiled grimly. He was going to copy these! It would serve old Hanscomb right for all the times he had patronizingly refused him funding. This was perfect blackmail material, and one never knew when such things could come in handy. After all,_"Never let an advantage go to waste,"_ was a defining Slytherin motto.

But here Snape paused. _Slytherin? What the hell, or WHO the hell, was that? _Puzzled, he shook his head. It had to be something he had read once, though for the life of him he couldn't remember where. It sounded childishly stupid, like something from a comic book or one of those deplorable sci-fi/fantasy novels that he was always confiscating from students. And he _never_ read those! But maybe he had once. Perhaps long ago, he had read such drivel was only now remembering it. He shrugged. Just another mystery to be solved, but it was a minor one that would have to queue up. First things first...

With fingers that trembled slightly, Snape flipped through the alphabetized files, passing the A's, the C's, the F's, and the N's, until he came to the S's, and his own sought after information. Carefully he pulled out his file and took it to the Head's desk. Sitting down in Mr. Hanscomb's comfortable chair (much more comfortable than his own...) he shone his torch at the document.

Sadly, there wasn't much there. He was listed as: **Snape, Alan Severin. **born January 9, 1959 in the town of Applegate in West Yorkshire to parents Edward Samuel Snape and Catherine Louise Snape. There was dry documentation concerning his educational history, what schools he attended from Elementary through college, and notation covering his former employment with letters of recommendation. It was lackluster and completely unearth-shattering, but oddly enough it did calm the worst of his wildest fears. On days when he was sure his sanity was hanging by the merest of threads, there were moments when he wondered if he even _existed._ Well, here was proof that he did.

Snape perused the documents carefully. One of the most maddening things about his progressively hazy memories was that they seemed perfectly fine as long as they were left alone. They formed a background for the working of his conscious mind, an identity framework. He was Alan Snape, the science teacher. He had been a teacher for years. He had come from the North, from Applegate, a small suburb outside of Leeds. He had graduated from University, and his parents names had been thus and so, who had died of thus and so. These facts, along with a host of others, were things he could go about his daily life without really thinking about. They were simply part of his unconscious reality.

But once he had started really looking at them, they appeared far less substantial. They felt more like painted scene props than real memories. There were things missing from them, little details that really should have been there. Why, for instance, could he remember his parents' names and faces but not any of the commonplace events of daily life with them? Why did he know what school he had taught at before coming here, could even see pictures of it in his mind, but not remember any specifics of what it was like to actually teach there?

Even his own appearance was somehow strange to him. Oh, he knew what his features looked like. There was a photograph attached to his dossier, and Snape rubbed his fingers across it pensively. Yes, that was him. It was a bad photo, but as such that was understandable. Snape was an ugly man, and he doubted any photo of him could ever be good. Here was his long, bony face, his beaky nose, his thin, grim looking mouth, and his down-slanting black eyes. Even the resolute unhappiness in his expression was completely characteristic of him. Though his severely conservative hair looked more brown than black in the picture, that could be just a trick of the light. This really was his face. Something about it, however, just didn't seem right.

He put his transcript down on the desk and then examined his letters of recommendation. There were two of them. Yet here also there was nothing that seemed extraordinary. There was nothing that really said anything at all.

_Mr. Alan Snape is a hardworking dedicated teacher and would be a credit to any institution_

_of learning. We recommend him highly._

_Mr. Snape has always done an excellent job with his students. He puts their welfare_

_as well as their learning as his top priority. Any school would be fortunate to employ him._

Snape frowned. These were good enough recommendations to be sure, and it would be foolish to look askance at anything good someone had written about him, but still something about them felt very wrong. They seemed like form letters, like missives generated by a professional writer-- or a robot. Each was an exquisitely polite, perfect letter, but they said very little. One couldn't tell from reading them if the writer had actually known him, or had simply been paid to pen him something decent.

Where in these short, sterile recommendations was any mention of his accomplishments, his contributions, his special projects for the school that he must have been working on? Weren't there any students whose lives he had impacted? Had he done nothing innovative, nothing progressive, in all the years of his service there? How could it be possible that he hadn't?

Scanning the dates of his former employment, Snape discovered he had been a teacher at Forestbrook School for fourteen years, a fairly long time. Surely over those years he should have made a bit more impact than "dedicated teacher" and "does an excellent job." It also seemed significant that no one wrote that he would be missed, or that anyone was sorry to see him go. Had his years there been just as unrewarding as those he experienced here? Had he been shunned and misunderstood, or had it been the other way around? Here, at this school, he kept _himself _apart, refusing any but the briefest of social contact. Had he done so in the past as well? Was that why he had left? Why had he?

He looked over the document for his date of leaving-- almost three years ago-- and his reasons for leaving was listed as... personal. _Personal? Well, what the hell did that mean? _Why didn't they give any details? "Personal" could be anything It could mean a difference of professional opinion. It could mean anger and dissatisfaction. It could mean a feud with administration or other members of staff. Or it could mean trouble at home, some sort of emotional trauma. _Oh no... _

The face of The Old Man popped into his mind, followed closely by that of the red headed girl that always filled him with such strong hurt and grief. He had an inexplicable feeling that the Old Man was somehow connected to him leaving his former job. But who was he? And what did a red-headed girl have to do with it? Had Snape lost someone close to him-- a wife, a daughter? Had he hurt someone? Shivers passed over him. Was that why he felt such guilt? Rising purposefully from Hanscombs's comfortable chair, Snape took his papers to the copier. He was going to find the answers to his questions no matter how much digging he had to do.

After copying the contents of his own file, he brought over all the concealed evidence of school embezzlement and made copies of that as well. Then he put all the files back meticulously in the exact order he found them and stowed his loot into his satchel. Carefully exiting the room, he locked the door behind him and headed headed for the exit, but then stopped half way. Turning back, he stalked the silent corridors toward his own department. He might as well use the computer while he was here.

Normally, Snape did his computer work during his free periods or before and after school hours, but there was a real possibility that he wouldn't be able to anymore. At least not easily. The computer for his department was located in the joint secretary's office, though up until now that hadn't posed any problem. Their frail and elderly secretary was hardly ever in, and the office was largely vacant.

But, Hanscomb had taken it into his head to hire a new secretary who was due to start any day. Snape envisioned the office invaded by some vapid, local horror who chewed gum, gossiped, and read romance novels while laboriously adding spelling errors to everything she typed. She'd probably change the password too. If he was going to get anything done it would have to be now. Making sure the blinds in the little office were safely closed, Snape switched the machine on.

Computers were one of those uncanny things that he understood in principle, but had no practical knowledge of-- which was extremely weird for a man of science. But he had taught himself. In the three years he had spent in this school, he had poured over every PC manual he could find, and had worked very hard to master it. He had to. Computer literacy was essential, a vital tool for modern scientific research. How Snape had gotten as far as he had in the sciences without using one was something he just couldn't understand. Unless, of course, it was simply knowledge he had forgotten...

But that didn't seem right either. Computers weren't actually _familiar _to him_. _Not like so many other, far stranger, things seemed to be. His initial understanding of the machines was all superficial, and everything he learned about them since was _new _knowledge, not something once learned and reawakened. It wasn't like the uncanny ability he had for picking locks or for using old fashioned crow-quill pens. Snape had bought one of those archaic quills and a bottle of ink to go with it, and the minute that quill had been in his hand it had felt absolutely and completely natural. Writing with it had been effortless. THAT had been a forgotten memory. The computer was something new.

The machine booted up and Snape logged onto his favorite search engine. He was going to find some addresses to match the names in his files. Then he'd send inquiring letters to his former employers asking for information about his past work. He'd research every little fact he KNEW about himself, from his date and place of birth, to the schools he attended. He was going to find out which one of his odd "memories" were true and why so many of his normal memories seemed odd. Somewhere is the maze of his past, someone had the answers. All he had to do was force them to tell him.

Snape frowned as he scrolled through lists of computer info. He didn't understand what sort of event could cause a man's memories to become so muddled. Unless, of course, there was some sort of head injury involved. From all the research he had done, people didn't simply suppress memories-- even unhappy ones-- without the help of drugs or hypnosis, or without any of the other symptoms of madness. At least not usually. And if they did, such people usually created delusions, largely pleasant ones. Snape's daily life was certainly no delusion. It was dismal and dreary enough to have the hard stamp of reality. What exactly had happened to him?

Why did he know how to use an old fashion quill pen, but have to teach himself the computer? How did he have a driver's license but no memories of driving? Why did his appearance, and even his name, seem somehow odd to him? He even felt strange in his clothing, as if he was somehow _under dressed_ in his long shirtsleeves, tie, and jacket. Honestly, what should he be wearing? And what about all these odd impressions and sensations? Why did so many people seem familiar to him is such bizarre ways. And why did he get the strange compulsions to do things that were patently impossible-- things that could only be done by the employment of some sort of... magic?

Well, that probably did constitute craziness. _Magic! of all the foolish things... _Even just thinking about it was probably proof of unbalance. Yet even here the ideas represented by that craziness felt familiar, like the sensation of that feather topped quill in his hand. Why should such crazy things feel familiar to him? He wasn't going wouldn't permit it.

Snape printed his findings and added them to the pile in his satchel. No he wasn't crazy. He was only _afraid _of going crazy. All people had odd thoughts from time to time, and he doubted there was a single soul alive who didn't wish passionately some days for the ability to suspend the laws of physics-- especially when under stress. He was just tired. And very, very confused. But he soon would have the answers he needed. Soon he would solve these mysteries. All he needed was time.


	8. A Fish out of Water

These characters and their setting are the property of J. Rowling and her associates and affiliates.

**Chapter 8: **_**A Fish Out of Water **_

Emma frowned slightly as she chewed a mouthful of what had to be the worst meat and potato pie this side of Hades. True, it was school food, and even without her memories she knew that school lunches weren't _haute gourmet, _but she still found it depressing. She had paid for this lunch-- with money that was dear considering her salary. It was too bad that what she had to spend it on wasn't palatable. As she swallowed, she turned to the librarian and the teacher's aide on her right and tried to give them an interested smile. Their topic of conversation, though, was beyond her.

"Thirteen hours, Betty. Thirteen! And still her water hadn't broke. She couldn't get beyond six centimeters."

"Ah, that was what happened to my sister Jane. They had to use pitocin, and then the baby came so fast they barely got her into delivery in time! How many pounds was he?"

"Eight. He's a big'un, alright."

"Heavens, she must have been in agony! And her with hips like a stick..."

"Jenny told me it was terrible. She just kept screaming 'Kill me! Kill me!'..."

Childbirth. _Again. _ Did women really have nothing better to discuss than birthing babies? And did they have to do it so exhaustively, in so much gory detail? Emma looked hopefully for some other discourse that she might be able to join in on. Unfortunately, the exchange favored by the men on her left was no more congenial.

"It's Devon over Manchester this year. I don't care what odds Croft is laying."

"They just signed Dougherty as Standoff and Mathews as Loose forward..."

"Doesn't matter who they signed on! Tynsdale's their coach, and he's daft as door knockers. My quid's on Devon for sure..."

Shifting her gaze back to her plate, Emma suppressed a sigh. Though she still couldn't remember anything personal about her past, she now knew there were at least two things she could deduce about it. Since no barrage of facts bubbled up in her mind from the conversations around her, Emma could safely say that she had never had a baby (or knew someone close to her who had,) and had never been a sports-fan. That was cold comfort for her to be sure, but at this point she would take any comfort she could get. Not much else was forthcoming.

It was extremely dispiriting. Why couldn't they be discussing Mozart, philosophy, history, or even archeology? Though Emma didn't know many facts about archeology, she felt certain it would be far more interesting listening to that than childbirth. Brooding pensively, she found herself missing the nursing home and the loving friends she had left there.

Though Emma hadn't wanted to leave the safe comfort of the home to go to a job so far away, she had at least been heartened by the fact that she'd be working in a _school_. Since in her past life had obviously been absorbed in study, an academic setting-- even a small country one-- would probably be ideal. The work would be interesting, the environment stimulating, and even though she had no memories of learning her vast wealth of facts, the inquiring nature that had once seemed to push her, was still the driving force of her personality. She had thought working at a school would be fun.

Sadly, it wasn't turning out that way.

Emma "knew" what a school was supposed to be like-- how its form was structured, and what its standards were likely to be. She could even rattle off recent Acts of Parliament concerning Educational Policy. Though she couldn't remember _attending_ school, she was still certain she knew about Modern English Education. But what she hadn't known, and what she was now coming to grips with, was the grim reality that what was "supposed to be" might actually not be at all. Not every school in every district was a model of British Educational Standards. Some localities lagged. Now it appeared that there were some spots off the beaten track that lagged behind so badly that they were lost and forgotten-- so lost and forgotten that they didn't even know that they were.

This school she was now employed in was backward. Even as a green, new-hire only weeks into her position, she couldn't help but see it. The place was underfunded, under supplied, and obviously under performing. What Emma couldn't understand was why this situation should be. State money was available for all schools. There were government agencies whose sole purpose was to bring up the standards of malperforming districts. Why in the world had this provincial country school been allowed to stagnate? Why wasn't anybody doing something about it?

Of course it _would _help if somebody cared enough to make an effort... But it didn't look like anybody was or ever would be. Though Emma had only been in town a couple of weeks, that short time had been enough to tell her what the average local would be likely to do in regards to their school. Emma knew there were professional type towns and towns far more working class. That was simple demographics, after all. Now she could see that there were some towns-- sleepy, provincial places like this-- that took the term "working class" to heart. The people here just didn't give their school much thought. Having a school was a necessary fact of their existence, but they accepted it exactly as it was. She hadn't met anyone yet who seemed to think there was need of some revision.

And what was really so frustrating-- puzzling too-- was that the school _personnel_ didn't see the problem either! Mr. Hanscomb, the headmaster, was jovial and friendly. He acted as if there was nothing amiss in his tiny little kingdom. He presided over the staff and students with a sort of benign _laissez faire_, like a genial, but distant monarch waving kindly to his happy subjects. He didn't have a clue, nice though he was, and the teachers seemed just as bad. Everyone appeared complaisant. All except one, of course, but he stuck out from the others like a painfully throbbing sore thumb.

She spared a glance at the sore thumb-- Mr. Snape-- who was sitting at the far end of the table. Snape was the only teacher who didn't seem to have a lackadaisical attitude toward his job or his students. He appeared to be the only teacher who was _trying _to get the students to pass their A-levels. The others seemed to be old, tired, somewhat incompetent, or half asleep, but Snape was sharp and strict. He had high standards and he stuck with them. Only Snape gave students detentions and actually assigned homework over the weekend. Indeed, the man acted the way a teacher _should_. Needless to say, the rest of the teachers resented him. He was definitely the staff pariah.

"Toxemia, that's what it was."

"Oh, the poor soul! She's lucky to be alive."

"Man can't run for beans. Wilson knocked him right on his arse."

"Yeah, buried in the scrum. I saw it. Lost the match for Dorset, that did."

A frustrated scream bubbled up inside her, but she stifled it and did her best to look cheerful. After all, people liked you better if you were cheerful, and she did want to be liked even if she felt so terribly out of place. Emma knew she was stuck here. This town had obviously hired her because her lack of credentials made her come cheap. If she left, she had no means of finding anything better. Hers would be a meager life of stocking shelves at an Asda, or slaving away at some wretched assembly line. Emma just had to make a go of it here. She really had no other choice.

Focusing moodily on her nasty lunch, she examined the sad remains on her plate. Wasn't meat and potato piesupposed to contain _meat_? Emma knew nothing at all about cooking (another possible clue about her past) but the title had said"meat." Shouldn't there be some sort of animal protein mixed with the wilted potatoes and rusty vegetables in that thin gravy and gummy crust? Was this really all they could afford? This district wasn't that poor! Even the nursing home food had been better.

But looking around, no one else seemed to have a problem with it. Almost everyone, teachers and students alike, appeared to be consuming the daily offering without a thought-- well, all except Mr. Snape. He had brought in his own sandwich. _Smart man. _Emma wished she could bring her own lunch as well, but to do that she'd have to have her own refrigerator to store her own food, and she didn't. At present, until she could afford otherwise, all she had was a rented room with a local family and a place at their table. She didn't think it would be good form to ask that they make her lunch everyday too. But perhaps she could manage peanut butter and jelly...

"Lost five quid when Lewis missed that kick."

"Don't know what they were thinking to put him in over Quigley."

"Hemorrhoids the size of golf balls..."

"That's awful! Happened to my cousin. She couldn't sit down for a week..."

Oh, if only there was someone she could talk to! Someone she could converse with on some subject other than illness and Rugby. Or maybe just someone that really wanted to talk to _her. _Emma again found herself intensely missing the nursing home. Though most of the inmates hadn't been intellectual, they had all showered her with attention, and many of them had had fascinating stories to tell of their lives. Then there had been the numerous medical personnel involved in her therapy. There had been plenty of highly educated people devoting time to her whose brains she had been able to pick. Now she just felt lonely. No one here knew or cared that she had lost almost all of her memory and was adrift in limbo. No one cared about her at all.

Of course Emma realized at that point that she was being petulant, and a stab of shame cut into her doleful mood. The locals weren't shunning her. All the ones she had met (save Mr. Snape, of course) seemed more than willing to include her-- at least superficially. The problem lay within her. Emma knew that all she would have to do would be to push herself into a conversation, listen attentively, and seem extremely interested. But that was easier said than done. Despite the fact that she felt terribly lonely, she just couldn't bring herself to act interested in something that bored her to tears.

And it wasn't that she disliked her co-workers either. Most of them seemed pleasant and congenial. It was simply that she had nothing in common with any of them and couldn't pretend that she did. It was as though she had been dropped onto a totally different planet-- one that had air she could breathe, that she could exist on, but that was sadly lacking in everything that would make it seem like home. She felt out of place. Alien. A fish out of comfortable water.

As she pondered this, she watched Mr. Snape put away the remains of his lunch, gather up his journal, and leave alone to head back to his classroom. He didn't speak to anyone, didn't even meet anyone's eyes, and no one but Emma seemed to notice his absence. Which was sad. He seemed as much of a fish out of water as she was, and she felt a sad sort of affinity for him because of that.

Emma liked Mr. Snape, though by rights she probably shouldn't. He wasn't a likable man, and he seemed to go out of his way to be the least liked person in the school. Snape never smiled, never made conversation-- and if he was pressed to do so, he usually laced it with such blistering sarcasm that most people didn't seek him out again. Emma couldn't help but smile at that. There were times even she wanted to say something snarky to relieve her boredom. Snape's sarcasm seemed witty and amusing to her, though she was definitely alone in that opinion. She also couldn't help thinking that he might be interesting to talk to-- if she could ever get him to talk to her...

Her early encounters with him hadn't been encouraging, and she had found that daunting because Snape was one of the teachers she was supposed to assist. Upon their introduction, he had treated her with a sort of scornful dismissiveness, as though dealing with her on any level would be a waste of his precious time. If he deigned to look at her, it was with dark scrutiny, as if he thought there was something about her that wasn't right. She had also got the bizarre impression that he resented her being in her office-- as if he considered it part of _his _domain and that she was trespassing upon it.

That was odd, to be sure, but Emma did her best to ignore it. She had no idea what sort of problems her predecessor had given the teachers. The former secretary could have been totally incompetent for all she knew, and considering the condition in which she had found her office Emma wondered if that had been the case. The little office she had inherited had been completely disordered, terribly cluttered, and more than a little dusty. If the woman's work had been anything like her messy workspace, Emma could sympathize with Mr. Snape's antipathy. She just had to show him she was different, of course.

So she had concentrated on keeping up a positive, cooperative attitude and eventually it had paid off. She and Mr. Snape now had a sort of respectful truce, which had started a few days ago when the science teacher had actually entered her office, dumped a pile of papers on her desk, and had curtly requested she type them. He had been challenging her, of course, but Emma had the brains to see it as a blessing. So far there hadn't been much work for her to do beyond organizing her office and playing on the computer. She been eager for something to do. She had also been eager to please. Emma had pounced upon Snape's papers like a cat on a mouse, and she had finished them in record time.

The expression on the stern man's face when she had presented him with work done early, and done _correctly, _was almost comical. Emma could tell he had expected a sloppy, misspelled, and typo-filled job, and for a moment he had almost seemed put out that he'd been proven wrong. Thankfully, however, that only lasted a moment. In the next he had been grudgingly pleased, and suspiciously surprised. It was obvious it would take more than just one instance of good work to convince him of her worth, but progress had definitely been made.

The good thing was that Emma could wait. By this time she had learned to be patient. She had persistently kept up a carefully courteous attitude and, as the days went by, she felt sure that she was earning his respect in return. Well, what ever respect he gave anyone. Mr. Snape wasn't friendly to her, and she still got the uncomfortable impression that she was treading on his territory, but he no longer sneered at her or seemed to consider her dirt under his feet. And at least he knew she could type! Considering the sorts of execrable manuscripts she had cleaned out of her new office, that really said a lot.

"Two to one odds on Wiltshire over Plymouth..."

"Emerson's scrum-half..."

"Emergency C-section..."

"Almost bled to death on the table!"

Emma shuddered. Oh, that was it! Sports was one thing, but she'd had heard more than enough about problem pregnancies, thank you very much! Sure, someday such things might mean much more to her, but at the present she just couldn't relate. And she really didn't care, as so many others seemed to, for the eager rehashing of other people's illnesses. What she really wanted was to escape to someplace quiet. Perhaps she could leave lunch early too. She wondered if anybody would notice if she did so. Or was she just as much of a non-person as poor Mr. Snape?

With a heavy heart, she rose to go, and despite her irritation with them, was disconcertingly pleased when the women's conversation paused. She was glad that someone had noticed her after all.

"Oh. Leaving so soon, dear? There's a whole half hour left."

"I'm sorry." Emma grimaced slightly and massaged her brow. "I'm afraid I've got a bit of a headache."

Sympathetic looks flashed at her. "Poor child. I wondered why you'd hardly touched your dinner!"

"Go to Carol Anne's office after lunch. She's always got Tylenol or something. Fix you right up!"

"Thanks. I'll do that," she said, giving them a grateful smile and promising silently to herself to be as nice as she possibly could to people no matter how hard it might be.

The women nodded pleasantly and then eagerly turned back to their conversation.

"So why isn't Jeannie still breastfeeding?"

"Little Bobbie's cutting teeth already. Bit her hard enough to draw blood!"

"My word, that's bad! I can remember..."

Emma moved quickly to get out of earshot. She supposed that when she was older and had a few kids she might be eager to rehash all the troubles of childbirth, though deep inside she truly doubted it. She couldn't imagine a life where such concerns would be the highlight of her conversations. She knew she would always be interested in history and science, music, philosophy and politics. No matter what became of her she would always long for intellectual discussion, or even sarcastic, witty banter-- even if she had to be buried by the mundane and dulled into dumbness by the lack of it.

Shaking her head a little angrily, Emma tried to shake herself out of her depressing outlook. She had to stop such self-pitying, negative thoughts. After all, life wasn't over. It was never over until one gave up, and she was not going to do that. Emma was young. She had years of promise ahead of her. It was even possible that in a year or two she could get out of this stagnant little backwater and go to someplace more exciting. All she needed was patience. And time. And a great deal of positive thinking.

Positive thinking. Yes, she had to keep that up. Her whole recovery so far had been due to positive thinking. It had been hard determination and steel-willed perseverance that had helped her reclaim her body after two years of inactivity. In the beginning there had been few who had thought she could progress very far, or even progress at all, and Emma had known it, yet still she had never given up. Even with hands crabbed into the shape of claws and feet dropped to the point were even the _thought _of taking a step was painful, she had never once considered the idea of failure. And she had succeeded.

Raising her chin with as much confidence as she could muster, Emma continued back to her office, and tried to put some spring into her step. It had taken over a year to be able to walk like this again, but she had done it. How could surviving a bit of boredom and loneliness be any harder? It was just another challenge life had thrown her, though sometimes it seemed life was nothing but one long chain of challenges. But one could never give up. One had to look at the bright side. _There always was a bright side! _And who knew? Maybe something positive would happen today, after all. Perhaps Mr. Snape would give her some more work to do...


	9. Bullies and Burning

These characters and their setting are the property of J. Rowling and her associates and affiliates.

**Chapter 9: **_**Bullies and Burning **_

Snape stalked grimly away from the Head's office absently pinching the bridge of his nose. Due to adrenaline, outrage, and the sinister influx of still more mental confusion, he had the start of a truly massive headache. Why did mishaps always happen in _his _classroom? Of course nothing of significance happened in other classrooms, so it was proof at least that he was doing something, but that didn't make it any the less irritating.

He had been trying to create a positive learning experience-- with "hands-on" tactile instruction. According to all the experts, that was the best way to sort of "burn" the material into the students' brains. It was supposed to make the experience FUN. Unfortunately, some of the hellions had attempted to have a little too much fun, and his attempt at progressive learning had bombed. The look on the Head's face when he had brought in the two offending boys had not been encouraging.

His physics class had been doing a refraction experiment as part of their unit on optics. Snape hadn't been given any tools of the trade, or any funding by which to purchase them, but he had found an inexpensive way to "conjure" the materials himself. There was a scientific on-line store which offered various grab bags of components. These offerings were ridiculously cheap, and Snape had purchased several "bags o' lenses" and out of all of them had come up with enough convex specimens for every student in his class to measure focal length.

He reviewed the events of the last hour in dour exasperation. In theory, it had been a great idea. The class had seemed eager to actually DO something instead of staring at him while he lectured, and for several minutes, there was comparative, comfortable quiet. Then trouble inevitably started near the window. He really should have been watching. Two of his most irksome students, Eric Stone and Rodney Brown-- who were far smarter than they let on-- had discovered one of the properties of focused light. It got hot. In sniggering stealth they had positioned their lenses to catch the sun and then aimed them diabolically at fellow student.

There had been a loud explosion of "Ouch! Son of a bitch!" and the other boy had retaliated by chucking his own lens at one of their heads. It really was a good thing the poor kid's aim had been off. The edges of some of the lenses were sharp, and he could conceivably have done some damage. As it was, the original culprits had raised a ruckus and had yelled for him in patent outrage. "Mr. Snape! Mr. Snape! John Tupper is throwing lenses at us!"

Of course he had to wade over and haul all three of them to their feet, the picture of a stern, authoritarian teacher, though by this time he had gleaned a fairly good idea what had happened. He wished he didn't have to discipline the Tupper boy as well as the others, but unfortunately because the child had retaliated there was no other choice. "All right, what happened?" he had growled.

"Tupper tried to cut me with a lens! Threw it right at my head!" Eric's well-fed, good looking face had been a picture of innocent righteousness.

"That bastard burned me! He almost got my eye!" Tupper's homely face was sullen. A killing hate simmered beneath the surface in his accusing, but thankfully undamaged eyes.

"Language, child" Snape had muttered automatically as he turned to inspect the boy. "Where are you burned? Let me see."

Tupper had moved his long, lankish blond hair out of the way, and to Snape's fury, there really had been an angry red weal developing on the boy's temple not far from his eye, and another showing on his neck. Snape had seen red himself, and with a growling sound had marched all three boys out of his classroom. Tupper he had deposited in the nurses office, but the two perpetrators he had led straight to the Head. He hadn't given himself much time to blunt his rage.

"I want these two out! Out of my classroom. Out of the school!"

The boys had then turned earnest faces toward Mr. Hanscomb, and Snape's ire had risen epically as he perceived a look of sympathy in the man's expression. These brats were possibly going to get away with it! And as if to confirm his worst fears, the Head put on his tolerant, placating expression.

"Come, come now. Everyone sit down and let's see if we can sort this out. Why don't you just tell me what's going on. Have a lemon drop?"

Suddenly for Snape, a picture superimposed itself over the scene in front of him. He saw two boys, one redheaded and one with tousled black hair standing in mock penitence before him. He saw the Old Man enter and both boys look a him beseechingly. A chill passed over him. Something like this had all happened before... But when? Where? Why couldn't he remember it outside these strange episodes of _deja vu?_ And who was the Old Man? When would he finally get some answers?

With a fortitude he had no idea he possessed, Snape pushed the "vision" to the nether reaches of his mind and did his best to collect himself. If he was going to lose it the last person he wanted as a witness was his boss. Besides, he knew it wasn't madness. He just hadn't figured out yet what it was. He gave Mr. Hanscomb his best "righteously correct" teacher stare.

"These sorry specimens of humanity have attacked a fellow student."

"Attacked a student! Why that's a very serious charge." He turned and addressed the boys. "What do you two have to say for yourselves?"

"Aw, we were just messing around, that's all."

"Just having some fun!"

"Besides, Snape's not being fair. Tupper attacked us too!"

"Only after you BURNED him!" Snape growled quellingly.

"But we didn't do it on purpose! We were just playing with the lenses. How were we to know what would happen?"

That was the last straw. Snape's thinly kept veneer of control had run out.

"Oh, you knew EXACTLY what would happen! Don't you play dumb with me! I happen to know you're smarter than you want people to know. Do you have any idea what would have happened if you HAD got Tupper in the eye? Do you know what a burned cornea feels like? Now I know you couldn't give a damn about Tupper or anyone else for that matter, but did you ever think about what would have happened to YOU had you blinded a fellow student? It would be criminal charges, and a possible stay in jail!

Both boys looked soberly at the floor for a moment, but then one of them smirked and nudged the other. Snape heard what suspiciously sounded like "Old man Tupper'd be too drunk to press charges. He can't even afford a lawyer!"

Snape leaned forward, his face barely inches from theirs. "_I _would press charges," he whispered menacingly. "After witnessing your behavior today, _and _having just heard your total lack of penitence, I would see it as my civic duty to have you locked away where you couldn't do anyone any more harm! As it is, I don't want to see your faces in my classroom again. As far as I'm concerned, you're through!"

For some reason, the boys had the temerity to look chagrined. They appealed to the Head in alarm.

"But you can't let him kick us out of science! We need it to graduate. What about college?"

"Oh, don't worry about that!" Snape put in nastily. "With your abysmal grades, there isn't a college this side of Hades that would take you. And if one is stupid enough to consider it, I will make a personal point to send them official notice of just what sort of reprobates you both are!"

The two brats looked stunned. Snape wondered if this were the first time either of them had been taken to task concerning their actions. Well, it was about time! Young bullies grew into adult bullies, and Snape couldn't be won over by charming smiles and smooth unctuous manners. No one was going to get away with anything around him if he could help it. The wishy-washy attitude of his superior, however, filled him with little confidence that justice would be done.

"Well, why don't you boys just sit here while I call your parents. Yes, yes. Your parents have to be called! You can't go around causing trouble without getting _into_ trouble. No, no! Both of you just sit quietly and think things over, and Mr. Snape and I will confer outside." Once the door was shut behind them, Snape didn't give the man a chance to open his mouth.

"I mean it. I want them expelled."

"Now, now Alan. Expulsion seems overly harsh, I think. They're just children up to a bit of foolish high jinx. And they're good boys, from nice families. They didn't actually do any real damage."

"They are pampered, privileged bullies who gang up on those less fortunate."

"Perhaps," the Head conceded. "But most children that are prone to bullying do eventually grow out of it. It's part of the maturing process. And it's all too shockingly normal, I'm afraid."

"It needs to be punished." Snape wasn't giving in.

"Oh, I agree. But the problem with expulsion, is that if we expel Stone and Brown for fighting, then we'll have to do the same for Tupper as well. After all, he was fighting too."

"He was defending himself!"

"Really, Alan. I happen to know this isn't an isolated incident. Those three are always fighting."

"Stone and his cronies gang up on him, two, sometimes three to one!"

"But he does fight back..."

"Well what do you expect? Should he curl himself up into a ball, arms over his head, and just take whatever they give him? He's a victim, damn it. Don't victimize him twice!"

Hanscomb gave him a long, measured look. "How about this: a three day suspension for the two bullies with a full written apology from them, and an in-house suspension for Tupper?"

"As long as those two brats are barred from my classroom." It was said through clenched teeth.

"Now Alan. It is possible that they've learned their lesson. Those two have potential. You said so yourself. How about a parent teacher conference before admitting them back into your classes?"

Snape sighed. He knew when he was beaten. But at least he would get an opportunity give their negligent parents a piece of his mind! He nodded to his superior, who beamed disgustingly in his face. Snape had to work very hard to keep from sneering.

"Splendid! I knew we could work this out! Oh, by the way Alan. I meant to ask you. How did those students get the means to burn one of their fellows? What sort of experiments are you conducting?"

What followed was a very dispiriting interrogation in which Snape had to explain and justify his use of convex lenses as a teaching tool to a man who probably didn't even know what one was. As he sadly predicted, the Head took a jaundiced view of Snape's progressive teaching methods and told him so.

"You say you bought these lenses yourself? I think the Board of Governors might frown upon that sort of thing. Shouldn't you stick to tried and true methods? You might have at least stopped to think whether these lenses could be dangerous."

"Oh, for Pete's sake, headmaster! Pens and pencils can be used as weapons. So can rulers, compasses, and very heavy books! _I was providing an exercise in hands-on learning!_ Optical physics is a field that is hard to visualize. We don't actually SEE light. We only see what it illuminates. Having them observe how light can be bent in a prism or focused to a point in a lens brings key concepts home in a way a lecture never can. As it was they were completely lost when I explained that light acts both as a particle and a wave. They'll never be able to comprehend the idea of photons, and photoelectric effects if I can't ground them in the basics..."

"Oh, all right, Alan. All right." Obviously, Hanscomb was completely lost as well. "Just be careful with your next experiments, won't you? Perhaps you should go over them with me before trying anything radical. No? Well just be careful all the same."

Snape was still trembling with the angry after effects of that conversation as he strode back to his classroom. Why did his boss have to act so condescending? And to suggest that he ask his _permission_... As if he couldn't run circles around the other teachers-- and around the Head too if it came to it! Snape was very tempted to march back into Hanscomb's office and announce to him that he knew about his nasty little embezzling project.

Except that would be stupid. The evidence he had found, and notated, was a one time only opportunity. It was the sort of thing one saved for real emergencies-- like being let go, and somebody else taking your job. Snape didn't particularly like his job, but it was the only one he had. He'd be damned if he let himself be forced out of it, and he knew such things happened all the time. No. Better to save his little pearl of knowledge for later. He might very well need it. Especially after today...

Snape had probably made a fool out of himself barging into the Head's office, but he really couldn't help it. He hated bullies. Though he knew bullying was an unfortunate fact of school life, it always hit him straight in the gut whenever he witnessed it. Something inexplicable had risen up within him at the sight of those burns on Tupper's face and the look that had been in his eyes. It had been a defensive look, defiant yet hopeless. It was a look of a child who expects no hope or sympathy and hates the world because of it. Bullies supposedly grew out of their need to inflict torment but their victims carried scars for life. For some reason, Snape knew exactly how that felt.

Oddly, though Snape had no concrete memories of being bullied, he could feel in himself the kind of pain poor Tupper was experiencing. He could feel the shame, the hurt, the rage and the helplessness. He understood the smoldering hatred and the bitterness so deep it corroded the soul. Snape identified with boys like Tupper as he did for no others, and he really didn't know why. If he couldn't remember being bullied, how did he know so strongly how it felt? Had he somehow developed a form of sympathetic hypersensitivity? Was he channeling some other personality from a long ago past life?

But of course that would be crazy, and Snape WASN'T crazy. No, this phenomenon had to be something real, some memory from his long past that was buried so deep that it might as well not even exist. Snape knew he had to have been a victim at some point to be able to conjure up feelings of hurt, rage, and betrayal that were so strong he wasn't able to shake them. Even now, he could feel a desperate constricting of his heart, a rage against the unfairness of life. If he closed his eyes, he could almost see images of laughing, jeering faces-- _and suddenly he did see them..._ Two handsome faces in particular, one with straight black hair and aristocratic features, and his partner with a bespectacled, impish visage and hair that stuck out in unruly shock.

So far he could only catch those images for a moment, but he _could _catch them. Those faces weren't something he had made up in the wilds of his imagination. Those faces were always the same, and they were familiar, as was the background that flashed behind them. These were _memories._ They had to be. He must have been bullied before-- and badly-- but he just couldn't consciously remember it, though that was obviously changing since a year ago, he hadn't remembered the faces. Little by little some very old memories were coming back to him. He just wished it all would happen quicker.

Snape paused before going back to his classroom and ducked into the men's room to compose himself before walking into what would probably be another ordeal. Washing his hands as a sort of symbolic gesture, he wet a towel and dabbed a little at his face in an attempt to soothe his headache or bring down his raging blood pressure, studiously avoiding a look in the mirror since he knew he had to look like shite. God only knew that was what he felt like.

These "flash-back" episodes were becoming more and more frequent. Not a day went by when he wasn't unnerved by something that seemed familiar when it shouldn't be, or frighteningly unfamiliar when it should. Nightmares of the Old man had increased in occurrence as well, and now they were sometimes joined by other nightmares-- dreams of truly terrible things. Did these unspeakable images come from some buried memory, or was this further proof of insanity?

Considering the heinous quality of some of these new nightmares, he might actually have sided with psychosis. But the images that had sprung up in his mind today had carried the comfortable feel of reality. These were memories and he was sure of it. He had no idea where they had come from, but they were real, not hallucinations. They weren't something he had made up. Though it was still possible he was crazy, he honestly didn't think so. What was going on in his mind was troubling, but he wasn't 'round the bend. He just didn't yet know what, if anything, he could do about it.

After a short interval in which he made sure he was suitably composed, he set off again for his classroom. He hated to think of the shambles he would find when he got back, but at least he hadn't left the students actually alone. Before marching his charges to the Head's office, Snape had asked the new secretary to watch his class. Though she had seemed eager to do it, he wasn't expecting much. She _was_ a competent secretary-- despite the fact that she sent him strange vibes (and she was hogging the computer!) But she was young, barely out of the schoolroom herself. She couldn't have any ability to control unruly students. Truly, all he could hope for was that she had kept the monsters from setting fire to the room or writing graffiti on the walls. After all, what more could she do?

Snape's classroom was quiet as he approached, and that seemed to him all the more ominous since students were always silent when at their worst. Who knew what mess he would find? With grim relish, Snape contemplated scores of creative detentions-- most involving scrub brushes and elbow grease. Oh, he'd show them what happened to malicious dunderheads! Approaching the door with righteous stealth, he cautiously cracked it open. The bizarre sight that met his eyes was not the one he had expected.

It truly was amazing. Somehow, he didn't know how, all the students were actually sitting in their seats, and they were working quietly with their lenses. There was no mess; no confetti on the floor; no overturned desks or broken objects. Miss Smith was bending over the desk of one of the little brats and helping her to measure her lens. She looked up and smiled when she saw Snape come in.

"I think they've all got it now," she said happily. "Well, more or less. I really love these types of experiments! Are you going to show them how to make a telescope?"

For a moment, Snape just stared. Miss Smith was just a slip of a girl. How in the world had she accomplished this? "Perhaps," answered dismissively, half out of habit and half out of disgruntled shock. "Acquiring supplies may be a problem."

Miss Smith looked at him closely and Snape could tell right away that she registered he was not in a receptive mood. He expected her to bristle in reply to his unpleasantness, but she just stood up and gave him a courteous smile. "Time to go back to my work now. But let me know if you're going to build that telescope!" And then she was gone, leaving Snape to muse, not only about her remarkable handling of his class, but everything else about her that suddenly struck him as being very unusual.

Later, at the close of the day, Snape was sitting in his office correcting the last of his biology essays and relishing the quiet that always fell upon schools after the students had gone, when Miss Smith knocked at his door.

"Yes?" he asked shortly.

Normally, Snape would have steeped that simple word with enough venom to detour his petitioner from actually asking anything-- or at least to make the ensuing encounter as brief as possible. This time, however, he found he didn't want to do that. Miss Smith had saved him a good deal of trouble today and he believed he owed her a little courtesy. Besides, she was obviously more than she appeared, and she intrigued him. Something about her also seemed very familiar-- not that _that _was anything overly odd these days when almost everybody seemed strangely familiar. But she seemed disturbingly even more familiar then most. He wisely decided that he wanted to keep her under observation.

The girl walked in, obviously nervous but trying not to show it. She gave him a bright, cordial smile that brightened him unexpectedly. Young women didn't usually smile at him. The average female-- especially around here-- took one look at him and shuddered. He found it strangely pleasant to see a smile directed at him with the usual vapidness behind it, and the phenomenon served to pique his interest and indulge her with more of his time than he'd normally give.

"I wanted to thank you for letting me help out with your class today," she began, hands clasped in front of her. "It was the most interesting thing I've done since I got here. If you ever need me to help out again, I'll be happy to do it. I just wanted you to know."

"I shall keep that in mind," Snape replied nonplussed. It seemed extremely odd that she was thanking him when it was _she_ who had saved his class today from anarchy. It was even odder still that she would ask to help him some more. He suddenly noticed her eyes sweep around his office and wondered if she had possibly found something amiss. Well, that couldn't be tolerated!

"Is there anything else, Miss Smith?" he asked in a much colder tone.

She colored a little. "Well, I was wondering if I might borrow one of your books..."

Snape raised an eyebrow in surprise. She wanted to read his books? _Science books? _Most people looked at him like he had several heads just for having so many! Snape was rather protective and possessive concerning his books, but for a moment he was so thrown off balance that he made a concession he normally wouldn't have.

"I suppose there's no reason why not-- providing you bring it back in the same good condition."

To his further amazement, the girl brightened like a sudden sunrise as she nodded fervently. Snape wondered what possible subject he had that would actually interest a young woman of her age-- and produce that kind of joyful reaction. Mining Chemistry, perhaps? Or could it be Paleontology or Biophysics? Maybe Electromagnetism? He wondered if she was pulling his leg after all.

"What type of book are you looking for?"

The girl paused a moment as if considering all the possible subjects she might want to pursue. Then her brown eyes met his intensely.

"Do you have anything on... Memory?"


	10. A Meeting of the Minds

These characters and their setting are the property of J. Rowling and her associates and affiliates.

**Chapter 10: **_**The Meeting of the Minds **_

"Goodness, Emma! You certainly are a fast typer. I didn't expect you would be done so quickly!"

Part of Emma wanted to roll her eyes and snark about the size of the work she'd been given compared to the amount of competence she had, but she didn't, of course, do that. She was intelligent. The reason Mr. Snape was almost universally disliked-- and therefore thwarted at every turn-- was because he didn't refrain from speaking his mind. Emma wanted _more _work to do, not less, so she needed cooperation. The math instructor would never give her anything to do if she made her angry so she gave the woman a winning smile. One had to catch flies with honey...

"I like typing, actually, Mrs. Osbourn. And I don't have a lot to do. I'd be glad to do more if you'd like. Perhaps I could type your tests for you." She looked at the older woman hopefully.

"Oh, no. That's not necessary, dear. I use the same tests each year. I just run off a few more copies, and I've never had a problem. Well, all except that time Alan found a mistake on one-- a typo really. How he got a hold of one of my tests I'll never know..."

"Um... Perhaps one of the students left it lying around?" Emma's smile was becoming extremely strained. She couldn't believe her ears. _The same tests every year? How silly was that? _

"Hmm. I suppose," Mrs. Osbourn considered, her plump hand absently scratching her double chin and her pale eyes hardening peevishly. "But he didn't have to act so superior about it!"

"Who? Mr. Snape?" Emma couldn't help wanting to hear what he'd had to say.

"Well, who else? The man's insufferable. He actually accused MY department of being the reason _his _department was having trouble! He said I wasn't teaching them enough math to be able to handle the science. Of all the nasty things-- hinting I wasn't a good teacher, that I didn't know what I was doing..."

Emma put on an expression of deepest sympathy. The woman had no idea what her problem was, and probably didn't care, but any attempt at fostering change would never come through insult.

"How awful! That must have really hurt. It's hard to have someone put you down-- especially if it's a colleague. You know," she confided sadly, "he's not particularly nice to me either..."

The math teacher was immediately mollified, and she patted her secretary's shoulder in a motherly, irritating fashion. "Now don't you worry about Alan, dear. I suppose he can't help being a sour old bat! Just stay out of his way. He keeps mostly to himself anyways. Doesn't fit here, you know."

_And Emma did? She had grave doubts concerning that._

Harriet Osbourn, and her attitude, were sadly typical. For generations here, anyone who aspired to something higher had left and never returned while those who stayed had defined the local character. This was a region of farmers and stone workers, of pensioners and small-time artisans. This woman, herself, had only gone to college in order to come back home as a teacher, and in her mind she was fulfilling the role admirably. Any criticism of her would have to be artfully worded and liberally shrouded in humble praise. Emma crossed her fingers before carefully pressing on.

"Mrs. Osbourn. Please don't think I'm being presumptuous, because I'm really not. I mean, you're a _teacher _and I'm just a secretary. But I just can't help wondering. If you always use the same tests, won't students be tempted to cheat? I've heard of schools where students were selling test answers. I really hope that would never happen here." _It's probably been going on for years already... _

But the teacher only laughed. "Oh, no fear of that, Emma dear. If my students were cheating, the whole lot of them would have perfect scores on every exam! But that never happens. They never even come close. I aways have to scale the grades, and if I didn't, some of them would never pass at all!"

"Oh, well. I suppose." Some of them were probably selling test answers anyway but were too dim to figure out that the answers they sold were wrong! The situation was worse than Emma had thought.

The older woman suddenly looked piqued, possibly because she had noticed Emma's slight frown. "I suppose I _could _make up new tests every year like _some _teachers do. She shot an icy glare in the direction of the science department. "But unlike _some _people, I don't have piles of free time! I have a husband and three little boys to take care of after school, meals to cook and a house to run besides..."

"Oh please, Mrs. Osbourn, please! I DO understand. I don't have children myself, but I do know how demanding boys can be. And _three _of them! I don't know how you manage! You really are amazing!"

If Emma was afraid she had laid it on a little too thick, she soon came to the conclusion that she probably couldn't lay it on thick enough. The woman was actually preening under her praise, and Emma thought it rather sad. Maybe she didn't get praised very often-- though she could perfectly understand why. She also knew that lack of praise was a self fulfilling prophesy.

"Well, I _do _do the best I can," the teacher sniffed.

"Of course you do!" Emma made her voice encouraging. "You know, women always have to work _twice_ as hard as men. It's like we carry the whole world on our shoulders! _You're _actually doing THREE jobs instead of one! And you really shouldn't have to type all your tests every year anyway. _That's why you have a secretary! _It must have been so hard that poor Mrs. Asquith's medical problems kept her from helping you as much as she should have. What was her trouble, again?"

"Sally had lumbago, poor dear, and migraines. Oh, how she used to suffer! Not a day went by--"

"Oh, the poor thing!" Emma cut in quickly. "No wonder she wasn't around very much. How hard it must have been for you to have had to do all your own typing!"

"Well, yes..."

"But now you have a secretary to help you again." _Oh please take the hint, Emma almost begged. Please, please, please! _"And I really need more work to do. You know, if I don't find things to keep busy with, they might think I'm not necessary here and let me go. I really need this job!"

"Oh, don't worry, Luv. I don't think they'd do that." Mrs. Osbourn gave her another pat.

Emma looked at her anxiously. "Are you really sure? I hear the budget's tight! And I feel so unproductive, so useless. You see, I like helping..."

The woman looked at her as if she were a new sort of species. "Do you really?"

Her secretary nodded fervently.

Well... Maybe I will revise all my tests after all. It really would be the best thing to do... And they _did _hire you to help me... Are you sure you don't mind?"

"I'd love it! How soon can I start?" Poor Emma had to keep herself from jumping up and down and clapping her hands. It was embarrassing how boredom could reduce one almost to childishness.

Mrs. Osbourn paused. "Right away, I suppose. All my tests are in my desk. Though I probably should_ rewrite_ the tests first... Unless you could do that too? It's just math, after all!"

"Oh, of course! Let me see the text books and I'll make up some different questions. You know, just ones that are different so that the kids can't cheat."

"My, my! That's good of you. Just hold right there and I'll be right back."

Emma forced her expression to remain cheerful, using all of her willpower to keep from racing after the incompetent teacher to help her extract those tests more efficiently. Patience was hard, especially when her daily lot was boredom. She felt like the proverbial dog who ate crumbs from his master's table. Except that in her case, she couldn't just passively wait for those crumbs to fall. She had to work hard to make them do so-- sometimes without success. Emma wondered if Mrs. Osbourne would even remember what she was looking for when she got to her office. The woman's distractions were many.

But it seemed she needn't have worried. Having once become accustomed to the notion of new tests (requiring no labor on her part at all!) Mrs. Osbourn had warmed to it and even seemed to believe the idea had been hers. She bustled into Emma's office with a stack of books and messy paper files. "Here you are, dear. Whew! I've been wanting to revise these tests for years! Are you sure you don't mind?"

"Oh, no! I'm happy to do it. Really! I don't mind at all."

The woman patted her on the shoulder again. "Such a good girl, Emma! I'll have to speak to Mr. Hanscomb about you! Now, my first form students are on chapter three and should be ready for a test in two weeks, and my second formers..." Here she paused. "Oh, did I ever tell you what my Willie did the other day? He's only six now and the trouble he gets in... Well! He was being extra quiet..."

It was twenty minutes before the math teacher's free period was over, but it felt like an eternity to Emma. She smiled, exclaimed with interest concerning Mrs. Osbourn's children, and anything else Mrs. Osbourn said, and _somehow_ in all the good natured verbiage she managed to ascertain which tests needed to be finished first and when they were likely to be needed. When the bell rang for the end of the period she was almost at her wits end. Finally, after the teacher was out of her office and safely in her own classroom, Emma heaved a sigh of relief and dropped her head into her hands.

There were times when Emma felt she had fallen into a Black Hole, some weird crack in reality that had landed her in an alternate sub-universe-- a real life "Brigadoon." It was like she was one of those poor characters on the television show "Quantum Leap" who were bounced to places that looked like home, but that had been twisted in ways that made them impossibly alien. Emma still had no memories of her past, but she now felt quite certain of what it _hadn't been._ Nothing in her present environment was even remotely comfortable. Wherever she had been from, it had not been like this.

Every day was something of a strain, and it was frustrating too. Emma liked to be busy. She liked to accomplish. But here, in this sleepy little town, the pace was maddeningly slow. Her eager mental fingers were forever being bruised upon the cold, unyielding walls of complacency and indifference. Every impulse for action was met with a stop. Emma felt as if she was running a race but could never get up to speed because of a road-block of slow fellow racers who just wouldn't get out of her way.

Here, people didn't care about anything past their narrow sphere. They weren't interested in progress. Local folk were completely consumed with their own little gossips and intrigues and they didn't pay much thought to the outside world. They also didn't like change. It was hard to comprehend this contentment with the lowest common denominator. It was hard to feel affinity for people who were behind the times and didn't seem to want to catch up.

Emma felt like a member of some conquered foreign tribe forced to assimilate-- or pretend to do so. Even her way of thinking was seen as strange, and though everyone around her spoke English, it didn't seem to be the same language at all. Sadly, she understood how George Elliot's Silas Marner must have felt upon settling in Raveloe-- a place completely alien to everything he had known before. It was no wonder the poor man had eventually become a recluse. He just hadn't been able to connect.

_A recluse... _Here Emma paused in her thinking. That was obviously what had happened to Mr. Snape. The man had effectively isolated himself. He was working hard as a teacher, doing the best job that he could, but he had enclosed himself behind emotional walls, built a fortress-- complete with mental spiked ramparts and moat-- to keep all the alieness at bay. Emma now felt she understood why he would do that.

Being different was vulnerable thing, and Snape seemed a sensitive man, a private, perhaps shy man. There was only so much estrangement a person could take. Emma, herself, had times when she just wanted to hide. Indeed, all that frequently kept her from doing so was a sense of self preservation. Emma had no credentials, and since her position was worse than Snape's, she had to continually be pro-active. All she could do was to reach out. Snape, by contrast, was normal. He wasn't hampered as she was by a horrifying lack of a past.

But that led to the question of why he was here. For this backward school to have a teacher of Snape's caliber was a mystery. Such a brilliant man was wasted here, and he had to know it. So why did he continue to stay? Mr. Alan Snape should be teaching at a college, or at a posh, elite boarding school. He should be making ground-breaking discoveries at a private research lab. What kept him at a job for which he was obviously overqualified, and in which he was obviously unhappy? Emma hoped she would find out the secret of these mysteries eventually. It was one of her long term goals.

For some reason, Emma couldn't help but find Snape fascinating. She had been inexplicably drawn to him from the very beginning. Though she originally thought it was because he stuck out as different, she had lately begon to realize it was because of his similarities-- to her. He reminded her of herself. Like her, Snape was an oddity, someone who didn't belong, and besides that he seemed to look just as miserable as she felt. Emma sensed that he might be a kindred spirit, someone who would understand her or at least be someone she could understand. She wanted to connect with him. That was only if she could get him to talk to her...

Today, though, she was going to try. He'd probably freeze her with some sarcastic sneer no matter what she said to him, but at this point Emma was so starved for intelligent conversation she felt she could brave any amount of snarkiness to get it. Snape was articulate. He was also well read. Endless possibilities for stimulating conversation-- on something other than gossip, sickness, and the weather-- just had to abound! Emma was determined to get him to say _something_ to her, no matter how small it was. At the close of the day, after tidying her office, a very determined Miss Smith headed down the hall, books in hand, to the office of Alan Snape..

Snape's office was a fascinating place. The shelves were crammed with jars of specimens, rocks of various kinds, fossilized bones, and bits of dried leaves, flowers, and seeds. Then, of course, there were all his books. Alan Snape had more books in his office than any other teacher did-- better books on science than the school library. On the day he had let her watch one of his classes for him Emma had asked if she could borrow one of them. Though he had looked at her hawkishly-- as if she were a new specimen he wasn't used to encountering-- the answer had been yes.

That odd look didn't bother Emma. By that time she had become used to it. Just as the residents of the nursing home had regarded her as a favored child, people here all seemed to see her as strange. Ironically, the first book she had chosen was about memory, and she had returned it carefully within the week. After that he had let her borrow more-- sometimes more than one at a time. Today she was returning two books, one on geology and one on heredity. She considered carefully what type of book woul be most likely to lend ideas for comment. Psychology of learning, perhaps?

As she approached his office, she could hear the sounds of voices-- the deep and strangely melodic one of Snape and the higher pitched, rougher voice of a boy. Peering in, Emma saw a youth slouching near the desk. He had the round shouldered, defensive posture of someone who wasn't listening and who didn't trust those in authority to have anything worthwhile to say. Straight, oily, sand colored hair spilled over his limp collar and fell forward to hide his face. Emma recognized the boy as John Tupper, the one everyone agreed was a troublemaker, the one who had pulled an in-house suspension for doing a stunt in Snape's class.

"But why do _I _have to do it over?" the boy whined truculently. "Lots of blokes didn't pass it in!"

"Lots of those _blokes, _Mr. Tupper, are dunderheads."

"Then I'm one too."

"Is that what you really WISH to be?" The question was a hiss.

The boy kept his face down and didn't meet his teacher's eyes.

"Well, answer me!"

He answered with a sullen mutter.

"What do you mean you _can't _do them?" Snape asked waspishly. "I wouldn't assign them if I didn't think you could! These are simple conversion problems, and most of the work is mathematics. I _know _you were in class the days we discussed this, so you don't have any excuse!"

Tupper looked angry and ashamed, and Emma was puzzled as to why. Mr. Snape was behaving in a way she hadn't seen before. Uncharacteristically, he actually seemed to want to give this boy a break _and _be trying to curb his famous temper. Sad to say, it also appeared that he was fast approaching failure. Emma's heart warmed to him unexpectedly. John Tupper was the school pariah, the Bad Boy everyone assumed would come to no good. Snape looked like he was trying to help him even though he wasn't having the best of success. Listening carefully, Emma slowly began to get an inkling as to what the problem was.

"But they're _crazy!" _the youth burst out desperately. "I mean, look. This one's got _parsecs _in it_. _Parsecs is like... _space! _I don't understand! How can I do it when it's something so big?"

Suddenly Emma understood, and without thinking, she surged forward impulsively.

"A problem with parsecs? Could I see it?"

The boy turned to her grudgingly and shoved his paper at her. "Look!" he groused, his face mulish. "It says: _a cube has dimensions of 10mm wide, 20mm high, and 10mm deep; how can that be expressed as parsecs?_ Come on! How can you go from millimeters to parsecs?"

"Simple," she answered seriously. "Just use math. I admit that the problem is... unlikely, but it's still only numbers, after all. No matter how large the numbers are, the principle's the same."

"Huh?" Tupper looked aggrievedly lost.

"Here, let me show you." Emma looked around for a paper to write on, and amazingly it was Mr. Snape, with eyebrow raised (was it mockingly?), that handed her one. She pulled out a pencil and began figuring. "All you have to do is take it by steps. You convert millimeters to meters, meters into kilometers, kilometers to light years, then light years to parsecs." The boy stared, but Emma thought she could see a tiny flicker of dawning light in his eyes-- a feeble light that begged encouragement.

"You see, all it is is numbers, and you already have the key right here." Emma pointed to the chart of conversion values.

Tupper looked sullenly at the floor. "I'm not good at math," he mumbled, and if looks could have killed, the grey school linoleum would have blistered black.

"No one's _born _good at math! We have to learn. And you don't even have to understand it all the way to be able to do it. You just have to learn the rules and how they work. It's like fixing cars," she told him, meeting his skeptical eyes. "Once you know to fix a Ford Taurus, you can fix any Ford Taurus, and the same goes for every other car. You have to learn the key- the pattern that makes each of them work." She smiled slightly as Tupper's steel blue gaze was suddenly more alert.

"Numbers always follow the rules, you see, and if you know the rules you can do anything with them-- no matter how big or how complicated. Parsecs are huge, but if you can see them as numbers that gives you _power_. It's like, well, seeing a car as a bunch of parts, or... a living thing as a mass of cells. It's a way to put the universe into a nutshell."

"Read the chapter, Mr. Tupper," Snape broke in quietly. "That's where you'll find the rules. I expect the assignment turned in first thing Monday morning. Before class. You may go now."

Emma watched pensively as the youth shuffled out. She almost jumped when Snape suddenly asked, "How did you know that Tupper fixed cars, Miss Smith?"

"Office gossip," she answered wryly. "There's no escaping it around here. About the only _good _thing anyone has to say about him is that he can take apart cars- any cars-- and put them back together again. Of course they also suspected him of car _theft _as well..."

"Of course." The tone of his voice was savagely grim. Emma crabbed together her courage.

"I've brought back your books," she ventured.

"Indeed," he responded absently. "I suppose you'd like more?"

"Um... If you don't mind."

Snape waved his hand in the direction of the bookshelf, but made no more comment. The sound of his pen scribbling comments on some poor student's paper was loud in the strained silence.

Emma browsed among the books. "You know," she began boldly, "I've just read the most fascinating article."

"Did you?" The fact that he sounded bored was not encouraging.

"Yes," she stubbornly continued. "It was about the use of the new ceramics in portable body armor."

Snape stopped his correcting and turned around to look at her sharply. "Where did you read that?"

Emma did her best to remain calm and poised. She had a bite! She actually had his attention.... "Chemistry Today," she replied.

The man's eyes narrowed. "The _latest_ issue?"

"Yes." She wondered oddly where this was going.

Suddenly he slammed his hand on his desk so sharply that Emma almost dropped the book she was holding.

"So YOUR'RE the one who's been getting to them first!" he exclaimed sourly. "I've been wondering who in this niggly little town would take them out, since nobody else ever has." He glared at her under furrowed black brows. "You do realize that the only reason this tiny provincial library even _gets _that magazine is because of me?"

He paused, and then eyed her suspiciously again. "Do you have the Physics Review as well?"

"Er... Well, yes," she admitted, trying not to smile. Mr. Snape looked a bit comical with that fearsome scowl now that she knew it was more smokescreen than anything else. "I didn't know you considered them yours. But you can have them next. I've already finished with them."

"Humph!" He rolled his eyes. "Well, that's good of you, since you can hardly expect me to give you any serious discussion on the articles until I've actually _read _them."

Now Emma had to work very hard to hide her smile. _That meant he was going to discuss them!_ At that point she could have danced.

"Do you have them with you?" He asked.

She brightened as she selected another book on memory. For some reason the man had several. "Actually yes. But I was going to bring them back to the library after school and..."

Snape waved his hand impatiently. "Psht! Give them to me. I'll stop by the library on my way home and renew them in my name." He began stowing his papers into a satchel to get ready to leave.

Opportunity only knocked once and Emma decided to pounce on it. "Oh, well then let me walk with you. I have to return Modern Astronomy too."

"Modern Astronomy?" Snape paused scowlingly as he opened the door for her. "What in the world are you doing reading_ that,_ or the Physics Review? I thought pretty young women read Glamor or Cosmopolitan or some other silly such thing."

Emma giggled slightly, proceeding him into the hall. "I guess I am a little strange. I like to learn things-- and not just science. I love history and philosophy too."

He humphed again, passing by her to take the lead.

"Oh, and by the way," she added in a moment of daring. "Thanks for the compliment."

"What?" He stopped and looked back at her in confusion. It was obvious that he didn't like to be confused, and it was equally plain that the thought of giving her compliments embarrassed him. Emma realized that her instincts had been right on the dot concerning Mr. Snape. He was more than just shy. He was socially awkward too.

"You called me pretty," she explained. "Most people don't, you know."

At that, Snape appeared completely nonplussed. "Oh...Well..." he groused gruffly. "I find most people to be _stupid-_- present company excluded. Though, I suppose you'll take that as a compliment as well."

Snape's surly tone sounded anything but comlimentary and his black eye glared at her in mock menace. "I trust you will not be encouraged to take... liberties."

Emma couldn't resist. She really, really couldn't. She flashed him a conspiratorial grin. "Oh, don't worry. From now on I shall only ask to borrow one book at a time. And I might even let you read the magazines first! After all, since I'm the newcomer, it would only be fair.

He gave her a tentative sort of stiff, sideways smirk. "Then I suppose I can allow the compliment to stand."

"Why that's good of you, sir," she teased. "I always knew you were a man of distinction!"

Snape looked very uncomfortable, but unbelievably he made an attempt to tease back. "Humph... Really? What gave it away?"

"Why, your collection of books, of course!"

He took another baffled look at her and shook his head. "Well come then, let's get on to the library. Though I'm warning you. If The Royal Field Geologist is out, I get it first!"

His secretary's eyes twinkled. "Deal!"


	11. Crumbling Foundations

These characters and their setting are the property of J. Rowling and her associates and affiliates.

**Chapter 11: **_**Crumbling Foundations **_

Snape put the phone down and stared blankly into space. Whatever it was that he'd been expecting it hadn't been this. How could it? Shivering suddenly, he hunkered back into the only comfortable stick of furniture in his gloomy little bedsitter, the battered, old chintz armchair he had settled into to make this final call. Chill seemed to invade him, slinking with swift, serpentine persistence throughout all of his veins. The proverbial rug had been jerked from under him. The joker's last shoe had dropped. Any foundation his dubious life had ever possessed had just been toppled.

And how was it possible? HOW? Snape had the copies of his transcripts in front of him. They had all been signed and officially notated. None of them were any different than the documents of all the other teachers-- and he had checked that out, oh yes he had! Yet somehow his were all apparently wrong, completely bogus in every detail. They were shams. Everything in them was nothing but lies.

Leaning forward and resting his forehead on his steepled hands, Snape wondered what the heck he was going to do now. He had taken a couple days off-- called in sick in order to make phone calls during normal business hours. The responses to his query letters had been odd and contradictory, and none of the information he had found fit together logically. The only way to clear things up was to speak to people directly. Even then he had been naively certain that once he did it would all make sense.

But it hadn't. Nothing at all had been resolved. Instead of confusion he now had a nightmare.

Over the past few weeks he had mailed out a small avalanche of letters. There had been queries to the town of his birth. He had also written to the college he had attended and the last school he had been working in. At first he was only looking for normal, routine information, a simple confirmation of facts. But nothing he had got was routine or simple, and few of his facts correlated.

First, there was the matter of his birth certificate. He had one, but neither of his parents did, which was bizarre to say the least. Snape had even enrolled in a geneology search program, purchasing a cheap, used computer for which to do this. Still, no matter how hard he searched, his parents names continually drew blanks. No one _anywhere _had heard of them. It was as though they had never existed.

He, however did exist. There was a record of his birth at a hospital with all the pertinent facts. Oddly, however, that was all that there was. Official medical records ended with his birth. There were no listings of immunizations or health screenings, another thing that was extremely strange. Vaccinations were supposedly obligatory in Britain. All children had to have proof of them before attending school, and there were government records concerning it. So where were his? Why didn't he have them?

Which led next to the question of his school records where, again, there were anomalies. _Snape didn't seem to have any! _Oh, his "official" dossier contained primary and secondary school information, and his memory held it as well, but none of the schools he had contacted had ever heard of him. The only verifiable thing he had was a college diploma, and why should that be? How could he have gone to college without proof of earlier schooling? Had he been "home schooled?" But if so, why list him as having attended specific schools when he hadn't? Something was definitely wrong.

Snape had first blamed these oddities on incompetent clerks and faulty record keeping. After all, keeping records was government business and Snape had little trust in the state employed. In his mind, government offices were staffed with lax, well paid pen-pushers who specialized in clerical errors. But as the number of them began to add up he began to get more and more unnerved. Surely that wasn't normal was it? Common Sense told him it couldn't be.

Though there were people who seemed to have been born under a "dark star," Snape would have had to have hit the Bad Luck Lottery Jackpot in order to have received all those clerical errors. There were just too many. Even though probability argued that there _was _a chance for huge random events to happen together, he didn't believe it. Monkeys at typewriters really might be able to type out the entire M_agna Carta _if given time, but that was only theory. Odd strings of happenings usually pointed to error, and long strings of errors were never coincidence. They always pointed to something worse.

Really worse. When he had looked up records of residency, Snape couldn't find any proof that he had ever lived at the address listed in his employment files. He couldn't even find proof that the place had existed! But the real clinker, the _piece du resistence _was the letter that had come back to him from his former employer at Forestbrook school. That was the reason he had called in sick to work. He'd just HAD to talk to them personally. It was also the reason he was now just sitting and staring at the wall...

"_I'm sorry, sir. I do remember your letter, but we really have no record of a Mr. Alan Snape having ever worked here. We've never had a teacher by that name."_

_Snape had felt sweat trickling down his forehead and sticking his shirt to his back. "But his dossier lists that he worked at your school for fourteen years," he had replied in confusion._

"_Fourteen? Oh, no, sir! I'm afraid you must have the wrong school. I've been headmaster here at Forestbrook for over twenty years and I assure you that there has never been a teacher named Snape in our employ. I can, in fact, list the names of all of our teachers from every year since I've been here. There never was a Snape. I would have known if there was."_

"_I have letters." Snape's voice had been faint, and it had sounded a little hoarse too. "I have letters of recommendation from teachers and administrators..."_

Then it had turned out that the names on the letters were completely unknown. None of the people who had written Snape recommendations had ever worked for Forestbrook and the headmaster was at a loss as to how they had become associated with it. Deciding, sadly, that he could be of no further help, the man suggested that he make his inquiries at another school. There had obviously been a mistake.

But Snape wasn't going to call any other schools. His dossier listed Forestbrook, as did the official letterheads on his recommendations. He wasn't hallucinating, and it wasn't a question of him copying some information wrong. These letters were right in front of him. They wouldn't sport the name of one school when they truly meant another. This was something weird. Worse than weird, it was sinister. After putting down the phone, Alan Snape's life had never looked so bleak-- nor so terrifying.

What was going on here? Why did he remember things for which there was no record, or people who had never been born? Why did he remember living at a house that had never existed, or teaching for years at a school that didn't even know him? Were all his memories false? Perhaps they actually were.

With another sudden, sickening chill, Snape was _convinced_ that they were. Lately all the normal background memories which he had taken for granted had all been gradually fading. They had been looking less and less like memories and more and more like flimsy two dimensional scene props, or like something seen in dreams. Were these memories becoming less substantial because they weren't real? Well, this apparently would be proof...

Head in his hands, Snape felt a moment of mourning for his fading life, for the dead parents he had thought he had once had and the dull, conventional childhood he had believed was his past. The faces of his supposed parents were melting from his mind the harder he tried to recall them, and he suddenly remembered being vaguely troubled that he never been able to think of them with _feeling_... Now he didn't know if those people had even been real. Was the reason so many details escaped him actually proof that they weren't real? But why should he have unreal memories? _Why?_

Snape felt like a drowning swimmer. He didn't even know who he was. Who _was_ Alan Severin Snape? Was that even his name? But if it wasn't, then who was he? Snape was lost. He didn't even _feel _like himself anymore. He felt empty, void of everything that had once given his life meaning. All he had left was a sickening awareness of guilt and confusion, an underlying sense that he was broken somewhere vital. It was as if his soul were as damaged as his identity.

But the fact that he even had false memories in the first place troubled him the most. It was as though his memory had somehow been altered-- as if he had been brainwashed and then reprogrammed, which he knew was patently ridiculous. Snape knew people could be hypnotized, even tortured, into a lapse of memory, but he just couldn't fathom something as uncanny as this. There was nothing he had ever heard of, nothing he had ever read, which could possibly account for what had happened to him.

Brain washes could trick the consciousness into ignoring certain memories. Sensory deprivation or mind altering drugs could create trauma so severe that entire sequences of memories could be blocked enough to "vanish." But nothing could plant new memories into a person's mind, memories with enough substance to seem real if they weren't examined too closely. No known science could cover memory gaps with convincing mental forgeries, _and provide official documents to match those forgeries! _This phenomenon was completely unprecedented. More shivers tickled across his skin.

Was he going mad? Was this somehow all in his head? He almost wished that it was. Something had been done to him. A deliberate effort had been made to convince him he was someone else, and he had no idea who had done so or why. Snape roused himself and carefully zipped his copied documents back into his briefcase. He was going to burn them first chance he had. If someone was doing something to him, he was not going to keep any evidence around that he _knew..._

That was paranoia of course-- conspiracy theories and mad, subversive plots, things that only happened in bad novels or silly spy movies. In real life there were few conspiracies beyond the mundane dramas of infidelity and theft. Things were usually straight forward and ordinary, and this truly could be coincidence after all. To Snape, the man of science, that had always been his rock of stability.

Yet he couldn't help feeling that someone had deliberately tampered with his mind. It was as though someone had reached into it and rearranged it, removing memories and adding new ones, or simply writing the new ones over the old. Except that they hadn't done a very good a job of it, had they, considering that the old memories were seeping back in...

The question was, who had done this to him? _And HOW had they done it? _It would take a power unknown to scientific circles to affect this incredible feat. No one anywhere had such technology. It would take a miracle, an incident of the paranormal-- something along the lines of magic.

_Magic! _Snape scoffed. There was no such thing as magic! Why even think it? People who believed in magic were crazy. It had to be some sort of science he didn't yet understand-- after all, science to the uninitiated _did _have a habit of looking like magic... Yet that didn't explain how he often had strange urges to do things that just couldn't be done. But perhaps that part if it was madness.

For some reason, the face of the Old Man popped into his head, and with it that stomach clenching lurch of devastating loss. _Who was the Old Man? Was he the key to this whole mystery? _Snape still saw him in his dreams several times a week. His face came into his mind when some odd familiarity was dodging him. Snape had tried to put an identity to this Old Man, but had always, always failed.

He had ruled out him being his father or his grandfather because he had pictures of family in his mind. But now, of course, he was beginning to doubt those "pictures." It was completely possible now that _NONE _of the mental images he thought he had of family were actually real. And wasn't it a coincidence that his parents and all of his other shadowy relations were all conveniently dead? Who knew who he really was? This Old Man could be absolutely anyone.

_Damn it! Why was this happening to him? _Could he have been put into some sort of Witness Protection Program? But even that didn't seem right. As far as he knew, those witnesses weren't brainwashed, just hidden. And why brainwash them when their knowledge was supposedly valuable? Right now it seemed to Snape that he was in a program run by enemies, enemies that hadn't killed him for his damning memories but had erased them instead. But how could that be possible? And why take the time or the effort?

This whole thing was surreal. Snape felt like he was trapped in some macabre episode of _The Twilight Zone, _or worse yet, _The Prisoner_. And why? _Why him? _Who was HE that he should be the subject of such incredible manipulation? If he wasn't a witness under state protection, was he really a sort of prisoner after all? Could this be some kind of.. punishment?

At that thought, Snape felt himself suddenly stiffen. A punishment. For some reason, that explanation felt inordinately right to him. His life had the desperate feel of being in purgatory. But why was he being punished? What could he have done? What crime had he committed that would earn him this displacement, this frustrating and lonely estrangement?

The face of the Old Man swam in front of his eyes again. _"Please," _he heard him say, _"please." _Had the Old Man been involved in some way? Was he the reason Snape was now being punished?

Had he hurt him?

Then he remembered the Old Man lying dead on a cold stone slab and waves of guilt and grief assailed him. If the Old Man had died, perhaps he was responsible. Perhaps it was he who had killed him...

Snape shuddered violently and covered his face with his hands. Was he a murderer? Oh please God, no! Surely that couldn't be! _Could it? _But then why else would he feel such soul shattering guilt every time he had a memory of that strange Old Man? Why else would it cut him to the core and shake him almost to the point of nausea? Had he really killed the man? _No. Please, please, no! _

But if he had committed a murder, _why _would he have done it? Why couldn't he remember that, or the particulars of the actual crime? And if he really did murder someone why wasn't he locked up in jail? Why brainwash him and give him a new identity? True, teaching in this dull, provincial backwater might seem unpleasant enough to be punitive, but surely it couldn't be considered the same as a prison sentence! There had to be something here he didn't yet understand.

Why send him here? _WHO had sent him? _Oh God, Snape thought in cold sweat panic. Who had he fallen foul of? What powerful force had it in for him? How could a person fight an entity who could do such incredible things? What in the world was he going to do?

Just then a raucous, jarring sound erupted next to him and Snape jumped violently. He stared for a moment in alarmed befuddlement before he realized what it was.

The phone. It was a telephone. They made loud ringing sounds like that when someone called...

Snape knew what a telephone was, of course. He had used one to call his supposed former employer. He made phone calls to work and to order things by mail. Yet he had never felt comfortable with one and he didn't really understand why. A telephone was the most basic and universal of modern devices. Everyone had one. But still, it seemed to him like something alien. Every time the thing rang, it took a moment or so for him to recognize it. Always there was a moment of _what is that blasted noise? _before he remembered that it was only a telephone and that he would have to pick it up to answer.

He had to pick it up now, and he did so, expecting as he put the receiver to his ear to hear a diabolical voice laughing cruelly at his misery, a high pitched cackle of, "Welcome to your nightmare!"

"Yes?" he asked uncertainly. The voice he did hear was a surprise.

"Mr. Snape?" It was a woman.

"Who is this?"

"Er... This is Emma Smith. Your secretary."

Snape paused in minor shock. Miss Smith? What the hell was she calling him for?

"I just wanted to see how you're doing, to find out how you're feeling. The other teachers say you've never called in sick before and I'm a little concerned since you've been out two days. I want to know if there is something I can do. Can I bring you something? Do you have enough to eat?"

The fact that he remained temporarily speechless was probably due to the fact that he just couldn't trust himself to speak. Why was this intolerable busybody bothering him at home? Did she think she was going to carry him over some chicken soup? And where was she going to get it? He _knew _she lived in a boarding house! It wasn't as if she had a private kitchen or anything, so why was she offering?

But his irritation was countered by a shuddering sense of... well, he wasn't exactly sure. Somehow, he seemed to know on a deep, primal level that no one in either of his dubious lives-- either the false one he had been erroneously living, or the shadowy one he couldn't yet remember-- had been in the habit of offering him help. People didn't take an interest in his well-being. Nobody cared whether he was sick, hurt, or even wounded. They either laughed at him or turned their backs.

He didn't understand how, but Snape _knew _that he had always been despised, and that it had been a constant condition no matter which other memories of his were false. So to have this young, pretty, and _intelligent_ chit actually care enough to check up on him touched him in a way he hadn't expected. It was another anomaly, but it was a surprisingly positive one. Snape suddenly found he didn't want to antagonize her. The positives in his life were depressingly few.

"Ah... Thank you, Miss Smith," he stammered carefully. "That is very... thoughtful. But I don't seem to need anything at present. I... appreciate your concern. I shall be able to return to work tomorrow. "

"Oh, good!" the girl said encouragingly. "We've been missing you. I think, in fact, that the whole school missed you!"

Snape scoffed at that. The whole school missed him? Hardly! Unless they missed him pleasantly. Or unless there was trouble...

"How were my classes?" He asked conscientiously. Perhaps there _had_ been trouble.

"Oh, they're fine, though I don't think they learned much without you. The Head couldn't find a substitute and the other teachers took your classes on their off periods. All except fourth form biology. No teachers had a free period then. I took that one."

Ah, well that explained her call. That class was one of his most boisterous, and the poor child was most likely traumatized. He did feel a tiny pang of let down though at the selfishness of her motives. Not that he should allow himself to feel let down. At this point he should be used to it.

"Any problems?" he forced himself to ask.

"No, not really. But it did take an awful lot of work to keep them in line. The other teachers just made them sit at their desks and read, but this class is the one right after lunch and I didn't think I could actually get them to sit _quietly_. So I gave them quizzes."

"Really?" Hmm. That showed surprising initiative. And there didn't appear to be trauma after all.

"Yes. They had so much restless energy that I had them play a game. There was a plastic skull on one of the bookshelves and I had the students pass it from person to person. Well, uh, _throw _it from person to person really, and the one that caught it had to answer the next question. We covered kingdoms, phylums, species, even body parts and bones. They actually knew a lot. You've been teaching them more than they think. Um... I hope you don't mind." She suddenly sounded less confident.

Probably due to overwrought nerves, Snape found he suddenly couldn't stop himself from laughing-- and it felt good to laugh. That little plastic skull was a relic of his first failed fight over funds, and it was actually something of a joke. A sick joke. During his first year, Snape had put in an order for a full size human skeleton and Hanscomb had vetoed it saying there was no money. But then afterwards he had suggested to Snape that he start with one bone at a time, and had sent him the skull... Snape had been incensed. He had actually come extremely close to committing assault with the stupid thing.

Of course he had gotten the skeleton the next year, and he now knew why there was never any money, but he had never forgotten his near apoplexy at what he thought was administrative idiocy. Now the whole episode only looked nasty rather than stupid-- and Snape could actually deal better with nastiness. He understood his boss had been sending him a message cloaked in condescending humor: _Don't get too cocky. Don't think you can get whatever you want. I control the money, and you have to make nice and crawl to me to get it. _

Snape had kept that cheap plastic skull and had displayed it in his classroom as a sort of paperweight-- and as a sort of return message. He always had it where the headmaster would be able to see it. It was a subtle reminder that: _Yes, I know my place and I will never forget your method of showing me. And yes, I acknowledge you have the upper hand, but watch out! If the opportunity ever arises, I'll still remember. Payback is a bitch... _

Now that he knew the truth about his seemingly benign and jovial headmaster and was currently planning the crooked man's downfall, his subtle little message was all the more apt. Seen in this light, the little skull seemed rather comical. Thinking of it actually being put to good use in the classroom struck Snape as extremely funny. For moment all he could do was laugh.

"Um... Are you all right, sir?" Miss Smith asked tentatively.

"Skull-ball!" he choked. "Sweet Merlin, that's priceless! Who would ever have thought..."

"Sweet _WHO?" _put in Miss Smith.

"Heh! Hmm.. what? What did you say?"

"Oh, nothing. I must have just misheard something. So... you don't mind the little game?"

"No, not really. Though it will probably take me weeks to get the little dunderheads back in line. They'll probably think each day should be a holiday-- or worse, they might try poisoning me sick again! Perhaps I should assign _you _the task of correcting the extra assignments I give them?"

"Go ahead. Goodness knows I don't have much else to do. I could use the work."

"Humph! I'll remind you of that when you have a couple messy stacks of badly written and badly spelled essays to read through. Believe me, the novelty fades fast."

"Well, we'll see. So you'll be in tomorrow then?"

"Yes. Come hell or high water," he sighed. "And either one is possible around here."

Then he paused. It had occurred to him that after that explosive bout of laughter, he actually felt better. It was far less likely that he would return again immediately to the state of paranoid depression that he'd been locked within before the call interrupted him. Miss Smith had actually helped him-- even though he was sure it was only temporary. He found he wanted to tell her so.

"By the way, Miss Smith, thank you for calling. And... there is something you can do for me."

"What is it?"

"Tomorrow you can bring back that third book on memory you borrowed. I need to look up a reference."

_Author's Note:_

_Skull Ball is a pleasant memory from my own childhood. When I was in primary school, I had a student-teacher who made up the game. We were a rambunctious lot of students, and one day she picked up a plastic skull that was lying around-- probably after Halloween-- and started tossing it to us. Students that caught it had to answer questions. Then we could toss it to someone else and make them answer. We kids loved it, and the macabre element only led to the charm. After all, w were at the age where we routinely blasted each other to with imaginary bazookas on the playground, told gruesome "spook" stories in the darkest corners of each other's cellars. We played "Sick, dying, dead" in each other's back yards. Skull Ball was COOL! Miss Conley, here's to you!_


	12. An Unexpected Coincidence

These characters and their setting are the property of J. Rowling and her associates and affiliates.

_AN: Thanks go out to Sian for explaining to me about A-levels and other facts about British schools. Hopefully this chapter will not seem totally unrealistic to those of the British persuasion. There will most likely be elements of American life entwined willy nilly with anything British I manage to incorporate. But I'm a Yank. I think it's an occupational hazard._

**Chapter 12: _An Unexpected Coincidence _**

"I've brought your book back," Emma said brightly, entering the office with a sprightly step.

"Indeed. Thank you." Snape was busy with papers at his desk and didn't look up. "You may borrow another, I suppose."

"Thanks."

Emma glanced at the science teacher with a touch of concern. She was glad that he was well enough to return to the classroom, but he still looked awful-- bad enough to have stayed out another day. He seemed exhausted. There were deep bags under his eyes as if he hadn't been able to sleep, and his sallow skin looked waxy as if he hadn't eaten or drunk properly either. He also appeared to have lost weight, which was slightly alarming considering how thin he already was. To call Snape "lean" on a normal day was an act of charity. The poor man could stand to put on weight, not lose it.

Watching him covertly as she moved over to his library, Emma couldn't help but wonder if his condition didn't stem from more than just a simple cold or flu. Snape's whole countenance drooped. He looked careworn. The poor man almost appeared as if in mourning. Could he be suffering from a sudden emotional shock? Had he had lost someone close to him? Or had a doctor, perhaps, just given him a deadly diagnosis? Emma really hoped it wasn't anything truly dire. She liked Mr. Snape. He was the only person in her narrow life for whom she felt any affinity and she couldn't help being a little worried. Selfishly worried. She didn't want to lose him before they even had a chance to be friends.

"How was your biology class today?" She pulled out Darwin and Twentieth Century Controversy, frowned, and carefully put it back. "Did they give you any trouble? I hope the students weren't too rambunctious after all that Skull Ball I played with them."

Snape made a huffing sound. "No problem I couldn't handle. They were a bit unsettled of course, but no worries. I still managed to put the fear of Snape into them before the end of class."

"Umm, don't you mean 'fear of God'?" Emma paused as she eyed a book on genetics.

"No. In this case fear of Snape is sufficient." He scribbled something with a flourish. "Not all of my students believe in God. But they do believe in me, and I cultivate a keen respect every time I verbally reduce them to the state of mushy peas. At least it's good to know I haven't lost my touch."

Emma giggled slightly as she considered a volume on super-conductive ceramics. "I'll say you haven't. And that's good actually. Your students learn. They might complain about it, but they do learn, and that's saying something at this school."

Papers crinkled in irritated hands. "Too bad my efforts here seem to be wasted. Almost none of my students will make use of what I teach them. I might as well just stand there and recite them poetry..."

His tone sounded defeated and it made her sigh. Mr. Alan Snape was the best teacher this school presently had. It was criminal that he wasn't better appreciated. The students here had low expectations for just about everything, and their parents really weren't much better. If only there was something that could be done to change that, to wake them up a little. If only there was some way to help them set their sights higher, or even just to teach them that learning could be fun. Suddenly, Emma had a brainstorm of an idea.

"You know, it's true that very few students here seem to think about going on to college, but there's no reason why that can't change. Why don't we do something to fire up their imagination-- get them to think outside the box, or maybe just think outside of this piskey little town. Hey! Why don't you start an after school science club or something? That might help."

Snape scrawled a large red "D" on the top margin of a student's test. "Odd how you seem particularly eager to volunteer my time." He sounded darkly sardonic.

"Oh, but it wouldn't have to be just you, sir. I could help!" she countered earnestly. "And I'd be really glad to do it. Since I'm almost done with Mrs. Osbourne's math tests, I don't have anything else to work on. Oh, this could be great! And fun too! It would be a wonderful way to get students interested in science outside of the classroom. And then we could encourage them to try for college. Just think, we could have experiments, all sorts of quiz games, and maybe even field trips..."

"Curb your enthusiasm," Snape pronounced quellingly. "Hanscomb would never give it funding."

"No?" Emma felt like a popped balloon.

"Not on your life. He's parsimonious to the point of penury when it comes to doling out money-- particularly when it involves the science department. I have to fight down and dirty, tooth and nail for every ounce of supplies I get." He scribbled another red-inked comment in a manner that was almost vindictive. "Something that sounded like a field trip would never pass his muster."

"Darn. Oh that's really too bad. I was hoping we could get up a career exploration workshop and then take a bus load of students over to the closest Uni to sort of whet their appetites. I mean, maybe if they saw how fun campus life was maybe they'd try a little harder for it." She sighed before getting another sudden bright idea. "But say, I don't think the Head would object if you had after-school _help_ sessions! That would work. I mean, those wouldn't take any funding at all!"

"No, just my time and effort," he snarked. "Which, believe it or not, are actually important to me! But aside from that, your promising idea would never work here. Student hate me. No one would come."

Emma thought of the slouchy boy with the greasy yellow hair, and remembered the closed, defensive look on his face as he had tried to hide the hungry spark in his eyes. "Oh, I don't know about that, Mr. Snape. I think lots of kids would-- John Tupper, for one-- if they were approached the right way.

Snape paused for a moment before flipping over a paper and Emma carefully hid her smile. She had obviously scored a point. "Hmm," he mused, if unwillingly. "Perhaps I will consider it."

The title, Mysteries of Human Memoryshone down at her from the third shelf and Emma grabbed it joyfully. "By the way," she asked, "How did Tupper do on that homework assignment-- the one with the parsecs in it?"

"He finished it." The man sounded weary. "He even got a few of them right. That boy has potential. Too bad _he _doesn't see it."

"Oh, I know! I think he's smarter than anyone realizes. That's why it would be great if we could get him to come in for extra help, get him to join a science club, or..."

"I **said**, Miss Smith, that I would _consider_ it!" The glare momentarily flashed at her was peeved

With effort, Emma reined herself in, though inside she was bouncing. The science club was a good idea. She just _knew _it! And with a little persuasion, the math teacher might even go for it too-- well... providing Emma did all the work, but that was really no problem. She wanted to! Emma felt like dancing as ideas for outings and experiments bubbled up in her mind. But she restrained herself from actually dancing as it would probably put off Mr. Snape. At this point she hoped she hadn't already alienated him. It was glaringly obvious to her now that Snape couldn't be pushed. She doubted she could even "manage" him the way she did Mrs. Osbourn. Handling Snape was going to be tricky and if Emma wanted her science club she would have to be tactful. Possibly even devious...

Oddly, though, despite the fact that it would make getting what she wanted more difficult, Emma was glad that Snape wasn't a pushover. This was a man she could respect, someone that would make a truly valuable friend. A friendship with him would take time but it would be worth it, and she would just have to proceed with caution. A silently raised eyebrow greeted her as she placing her choice of book on his desk. "Say, why do you have so many books on memory Mr. Snape?" she ventured. So far she had counted seven.

Snape paused slightly in his work. "It is an interest of mine. Though it seems odd that it should be one of yours as well. This is the fourth book on memory you've sought to borrow, Miss Smith. Why?"

"Er... you don't know?" Emma was confused.

"Now does it really look like I'm in the mood for guessing games?" He huffed, shooting her a quick, irritated glance. "_Obviously_, if I already knew I wouldn't ask."

Emma decided to ignore his rudeness since it was typical Snape behavior and she had been pressing him. At this point, she was surprised he was still talking to her! Besides, she knew he wasn't feeling well. It was only fair to make allowances. "I'm sorry if it sounded like that Mr. Snape, but I really wasn't playing any games. It's just that I thought everybody around here knew about me-- especially considering how people talk."

"I don't listen to gossip," he grumbled, eyes back on his work. "And people don't come to me with it. Forgive me for being so_ uninformed,"_ he continued sarcastically, raising his pen toward another paper, "but just what is it about you that everyone knows but me?"

"Only that I've lost my memory."

The pen in Snape's hand fell. For the first time he actually looked at her with full attention. "What?"

"It's true. I don't have any memory. That's the reason I'm here working at this school. I don't have the credentials to get a job anyplace else, no proof of schooling or skill training at all. No one could find out anything about me. So when I couldn't stay at the nursing home any longer, the social workers found me this position here."

There was a moment of silence wherein coal black eyes studied her the way a chess player might study his board. For some reason Snape suddenly seemed very interested and Emma tried not to hold her breath. Having so intense a stare leveled at her from that harsh face was a little hard to handle-- even though his attention was what she'd originally wanted. She had the disconcerting feeling of being a mouse stared at by an owl.

"Perhaps," he began, his eyebrow quirked and his voice very soft, "you would start from the beginning to make your story understandable to me. Why, for instance, were you at a nursing home?"

Emma trembled slightly, but that was only from eagerness and relief. This was the first time anyone here had asked to hear her story even though she knew most of her co-workers knew about it and often talked about her behind her back. She had even come upon people in the very act of discussing her situation, yet no one had ever sought to hear it from her personally. Perhaps they were only waiting for her to bring it up out of a form of polite consideration, but Emma had always got the feeling that no one really cared. Emma was an outsider. Her oddities were only good for gossip. Now Mr. Snape was actually asking to hear it. She took a deep breath and plunged carefully ahead.

"I don't know exactly what happened to me," she began. "They told me I was found by the side of the road unconscious-- possibly from a hit and run accident. All I really know is that I was in a vegetative state for two years and that nobody thought I would ever wake up. They were even thinking of pulling the plug on me. No one still knows why I recovered, but when I did wake up I couldn't remember anything. I couldn't tell them what had happened to me or even who I was."

Snape frowned. "Didn't you have any identification on you?"

"No. Nothing. I didn't have a purse or a cell phone, or maybe I did but they had been stolen. According to the police report all I had on me was odd looking clothes."

"_Odd looking clothes? _Well that's rather cryptic, I dare say."

"Yes. They said I looked like I was going to a Renaissance Fair or something. I was wearing a long gown and a big hooded cloak. I still have them. For some reason they were kept for me, though I don't know why." She shrugged. "Perhaps it was because it was all I had for them to save."

"Hmm," Snape paused, one long finger absently rubbing his lower lip. "Very interesting. And when did they find you?"

"A little over three years ago. I spent two years in the coma and another year learning to walk again. After that I came here."

"Three years..." Snape suddenly stilled and his brow furrowed. His eyes narrowed sharply and he seemed to be looking inward at some disconcerting train of private thought.

"Umm. Is that significant?" she asked puzzled by his strange reaction.

His attention flicked back to her and his expression again became masked. "No, probably not. Though I'm sure it's significant to you. You say you have no memory at all?"

"No-o... not really..."

"Not really? Maybe?" His tone was sharp. "Well, which is it?"

"It's just that what I have isn't actually _memories. _It's I know is... things."

"Explain that to me."

"Well, facts aren't really memories, are they? You just know them and take them for granted. I mean you don't go walking down the street and suddenly start remembering that William the Conqueror defeated Harold of Essex in 1066, or that Henry VIII had six wives-- three of them named Katherine, two Ann, and one of them Jane. I don't _remember _these things, I just know them, and I seem to know quite a lot. I don't even know how much I know. But it's all just facts, random information. I don't have any real memories at all."

Again that steady, obsidian gaze. "So what you are saying to me is that you remember nothing... personal."

"Yes! That's it exactly! I can't remember anything about ME. But ask me a question about Quantum Theory, Guy Fawkes, the food chain, or metamorphic rock and I could probably give you an answer. I seem to know a lot about history and science."

"You have no personal memories AT ALL?"

"None. I wish that I did."

Snape considered for a moment, fingers tapping absently on the desk.

"Do you have shadowy ideas, hazy outlines that you can't fill in the blanks to?"

"No. It's as if I woke up a year ago and my life started from that point."

"Hmm." Strangely, he sounded a little disappointed. "Do you have any weird impressions or feelings? Any odd experiences of displacement?"

"Well, it feels awful not knowing who I am."

"That's not what I mean. Do you find that some things are oddly familiar that shouldn't be? Do you find that things that _should _be familiar aren't? Do you get the 'feeling' that you should know something or that some innocuous occurrence is somehow significant? Do you get little teasing impressions that you actually know people when you don't?"

Emma shook her head puzzled. "No. I don't have anything like that. I just feel... empty. Nothing at all feels familiar, at least not personally."

"What about your dreams," he went on. "Do you have repeating nightmares, or dreams with faces that appear to you over and over, scenes that recur?"

"Not... not really. I don't see the same things over and over in my dreams, but there are _ideas _that keep repeating in them. I seem to dream a lot about being lost."

"Lost."

"Yes. Oh, it's awful. I have dreams like that at least once a week-- sometimes more. I'm aways lost somewhere, and every time I get the feeling that what I need is right there, close by, but I can't get to it. And it's not the same dream all the time either, just the same idea. Sometimes I'll be in a little life boat lost in the fog, or I'll be wandering in a desert, or an empty plain. I'll dream that I'm in this huge neighborhood where all the houses look the same and I'll know that my people are shut up in one of the houses, but none of the doors will open. That one's the worst. All the doors will be locked, and I'll hear people talking and laughing behind them, but they never let me in."

Snape just stared at her, his odd, down-slanting eyes unreadable. Emma focused on her hands.

"I hate feeling so lost, but that's what I am. I'm lost _here. _Oh, I probably belong somewhere. Most people do. But I don't know where that is. And who knows? Maybe it's already too late for me. Maybe my people are all dead or moved on without me and I'll never ever know. I wish I just KNEW!"

Emma swallowed hard. "I seem to have so much knowledge and I can't even do anything with it. I should probably be a teacher myself, or perhaps have a job in research. But instead I'll be stuck as a secretary in this awful school for maybe the rest of my life. Oh, I suppose I could take night courses and sign up to eventually sit the A-levels, but that would take years even if I could afford it! And I would _still_ have a hard time getting somewhere because you have to have a PAST. You have to have an identity. No matter how hard I try, I may never be able to get the sort of job I'm really suited for. It's like I'm trapped in a prison! I know it's really not so bad of a prison, but I'm still trapped."

She sighed and gave him a rueful, apologetic smile. "Sorry for whinging at you like that. I just got a little carried away. I feel so helpless and frustrated. It's probably not something you'd relate to."

There was a long pause where dark eyes measured her ironically.

"Don't be so sure that I can't or don't, Miss Smith. Certainly my being here's no picnic either."

"Yes, but at least _you_ can leave. You can always get a job somewhere else."

Again there was a long ironic stare, and Emma found herself wondering why Mr. Snape was here in the first place. Had there been some trouble in his past? Had there been a scandal or some sort of misunderstanding at his last job? _Could _he simply leave or were there complications she could only guess at? Emma wondered how badly she had trespassed, even as she wondered what sad secrets lay in the man's past. Snape, however, merely seemed pensive.

"I suppose it's true that I could leave, and someday I might actually do that, but at present I find myself employed here-- for better or for worse as the case might be. And... it appears at present that our situations might contain some... similarities. I also think it is possible we could be of help to each other. Tell me, Miss Smith, would you be interested in assisting me with some... research?"

Emma perked up instantly. "Research? Sure! What kind of research are you doing?" Restored to buoyancy by even the thought of a challenge, Emma felt her buoyancy returning. And she almost couldn't believe it. This was the sort of opportunity she had been hoping for. Here was a chance to do something far more rewarding than just typing quizzes and student work sheets. This was one of the original reasons she had wanted to get to know this brilliant, enigmatic man. Diverted a little from her from her own private troubles, Emma turned bright, expectant eyes on Mr. Snape. She really hoped her eager ears weren't pricking forward like a dog's.

Snape steepled his hands and and considered, the tips of his long fingers pursing his lips for an extended few moments, his black eyes glittering slightly. "As you have already guessed," he said softly, "I have an interest in the subject of memory. Though I have studied it extensively, as yet I have had no proper test subject. Providing you are willing, I would like to examine your 'non personal' memories. I certainly can't promise it would help you significantly, but it is possible that it might."

"Oh. Umm, sure. I suppose." Emma felt a little nonplussed. She hadn't expected this would be about her.

"Good," he said decisively, "First of all, I want to know what sort of memory therapy they used with you. Did they try anything at all?"

"Yes, of course. But it didn't work."

The science teacher rolled his eyes. "Obviously, Miss Smith," he said snarkily. "Just tell me what they did."

"Well, they had me look at pictures to see if anything seemed familiar. They did hypnosis. They tried scent therapy and music therapy to see if smells or sounds would jog something. But mostly they just had me talk to them. I guess getting patients to talk about feelings usually brings up memories eventually. It didn't work at all with me though."

"And what about all this knowledge that you appear to have. Did they do anything with that?"

"Oh, yes. They had me take a lot of tests-- math, history, language, and so on. They were very impressed by my academic knowledge. They thought that perhaps they could pinpoint what sort of school I had gone to and find my identity through that."

"And that was another obvious dead end as well."

"Yes. They sent my picture to a lot of schools but none of them had ever heard of me."

"Hmm... I wonder..." There was a long pause as he considered before turning back to her. "I will, of course, have to think about this carefully, but what I propose is to examine your wealth of knowledge from a viewpoint other than the academic. There may be things we can learn of your past from the odd facts you do remember, and there may be ways of gleaning information concerning your personal life from these facts."

"How? What do you mean?"

"What I'm saying is that you have learned many things, and not all of them in school. There may be bits of knowledge that would have a geographical or cultural significance and in these cases, what you _don't _know would have just as much significance as what you do know."

"Hmm. I suppose." Emma couldn't help a bit of a skeptical note in her voice.

"Yes. For instance, Miss Smith, do you know how to..." he considered for a moment, "change a nappie?"

"Huh? How could that have anything to do with--"

"Just answer the question. Think about it carefully, then give me an answer."

Emma thought. She knew what nappies were, of course. Babies wore them. They came in plastic packages and were made of paper these days, not cloth. Try as she might, though, she couldn't actually picture what one looked like outside its package. She also couldn't envision herself putting one on a child's backside either.

"No."

"Well, then," Snape smirked slightly. "From that we can surmise that you have never taken care of an infant. You most probably have never borne one, nor have you grown up in a family with siblings much younger than yourself. You probably have not earned money as a babysitter either, unless it was with older children. Do you understand what I am getting at?"

Suddenly she did.

"Oh!" she exclaimed. "Yes. I see! And I've been learning things like that already! I mean, I can tell you that I've never played Rugby or lived with someone who knew a lot about it. When they talk sports at the lunch table, I can't follow along at all. And when they are discussing childbirth..."

"Yes. Quite," he answered dryly. "Now what I want you to do is to think about the types of things that you've learned, any revelations you've had, and write them down. Then we can take it from there."

"Sure. I can do that. I'll start right on it tonight!" She tried not to sound too excited. She really did try, but Emma couldn't help a little rush of hope such as she hadn't felt in months. Maybe her life wasn't as quite so dire as she had been coming to believe it was. Maybe it wasn't a total loss after all. Maybe Mr. Snape really would find something those experts who had given up on her hadn't. Perhaps all it would take would be someone "outside" the prevailing method, someone with a fresh eye and new perspective.

Emma couldn't help gazing at Mr. Snape with grateful eyes. How nice it was that he was offering to help her! Of course it was, all things considered, only an academic exercise. The man was probably writing a paper on the results, but that didn't make Emma any the least bit less grateful. Besides, it was only fitting that as his secretary, she be in on all of his research oriented exploits.

"In the mean time," he said rising, "I propose we start with an experiment." From a side cabinet Snape took out what looked like a small black bottle. He also retrieved a long, thin box. Opening the box, he held out its contents to her.

"Do you know what this is, Miss Smith?"

"Why, that's a quill pen, isn't it?"

"Yes. Do you know how to write with one?"

"Oh, I don't know. I can't remember ever doing so."

He put the quill box and the ink on the desk before her and provided her with paper. "Well, give it a go, Miss Smith. I want to see how well you do."


	13. Making Lists

These characters and their setting are the property of J. Rowling and her associates and affiliates. I make no money from them, not even any fame.

**Chapter 13: _Making Lists. _**

Snape sat purposefully in his drab little bedsitter, a series of lists spread strategically over the top of his desk. His idea to help Miss Smith sort out her various memories-- or non memories, as the case might be-- sparked the desire to do the same for himself. It was a logical procedure, a task so meticulous and ordinary that it made the madness of his situation seem a bit more tame. It gave his life the appearance of sanity. To Snape, even an illusion of normalcy was a boost to his morale and he dearly needed such a boost. Discovering that he had been living a lie for at least three years-- with fake memories planted in him against his will ( which were now wearing away,) and the added idea that he might be in some sort of trouble, would be daunting notions to the most sanguine of souls.

And Snape was not sanguine. Not in a million years. The concept of control-- any measure of it at all-- made a world of difference. It gave him hope. Snape had the feeling that if he worked diligently he might someday solve his mystery. Besides, compiling orderly lists of observational data was calming. Snape had great faith in the Scientific Method. It was the only comfort he had.

He considered some of his lists. Most of them concerned his own person.

**1. Things about me that feel odd:**

a. My first name-- _it is not me_

b. My clothing-- _I feel under dressed_

c. My hair-- _the cut seems wrong. _

**2. Things about me that feel correct:**

a. My profession-- _I'm certain I've always been a teacher._

b. My last name-- _It really is Snape_

c. My face-- _Yes, that's me, unfortunately_

d. My hair color-- _black and greasy (My students called me The Greasy Git) _

Then there was his list of personality characteristics.

**3. Things that describe me:**

a. Loner

b. Prefer books to people

c. Sarcastic

d. Large vocabulary

e. Impatient with fools

f. No interest in the mundane

g. Don't trust easily

h. Frugal, like to live simply

i. Prefer dark, secluded environments

j. Feel inclined to hide

k. Like to wear black

Snape frowned a little. That list made him sound like a loser, a weird, nasty, suspicious type of recluse, perhaps the kind who commits mass murder... He shivered. Murder was definitely something he didn't want to think about, no matter how many times he was plagued by visions of the Old Man. He couldn't be a murderer. He just _couldn't!_ Murderers were locked up in prison, not buried alive in backwater schools. For balance Snape added:

Intelligent

But he also couldn't help putting in:

m. Stern

n. Strict

o. Scary-- _they called me the Bat of the Dungeons too_

Those last three appellations weren't favorable either, but he had to admit they were accurate. Snape, the science teacher wasn't going to win awards for personal charm. Like it or not, that was just the way he was. "Bat of the Dungeons," though, did seem excessive. _Dungeons? _Had his classes been once in a basement? He shook his head. There were altogether too many mysteries for his current comfort.

The next lists were far more probing.

**4. Things I should know about but don't:**

a. Driving a car

b. Using power tools

c. Working a computer-- _I taught myself after I came here_

b. Using a telephone

Snape found it particularly puzzling that all the entries of this latest list involved technology. All of the things that he found odd and mysterious were twentieth century innovations. He had absolutely no idea why technology should be foreign to him when he was definitely a man of science, but the pattern was there to see. And it was baffling. He could use a knife, a toothbrush, a feather duster, and a broom, but he felt uncomfortable with a vacuum cleaner, a microwave, a television, and a copy machine. He had trouble with anything electric, but he could write flawlessly with an archaic quill pen! Had he been raised in some odd, retro sort of hippie commune? But if that was so, why was he now a teacher of _science?_ It made no sense, no blessed sense at all. He moved on to his next list:

**People who seem familiar to me but shouldn't:**

And here he paused. There were times when that list could include just about anyone-- from the Head, himself, whenever he offered those infernal lemon drops to the wizened old janitor with the pouchy eyes. Snape realized that sometimes it was only someone's actions that made them seem familiar, a look in their eyes or a facial expression. Sometimes it was something completely superficial like a hairstyle or a pair of glasses. Most of the people who unnerved him with a vague sense of _deja vu_ only did so some of the time. He decided to list only those who affected him the most strongly and consistently.

a. Ernie Southby-- _makes me shiver when I see him. Messy hair and glasses. Green eyes. I __honestly feel like I hate him, but I don't know why_

b. Candace Fisher-- _little know it all. But her face looks wrong. Drives me crazy._

c. Rick Powers-- _Something about the red hair and freckles. Looks like he caused me trouble __in the past._

d. Jillian Ramsbottom-- _Red hair and pretty face. Looks almost—just almost-- like somebody __who should mean something to me, but she doesn't. Hurts to look at her._

e. Thomas Quillan-- _Looks like a giant with that bushy beard. Every time he delivers something __to the school I feel like I want to talk to him. He makes me feel... safe._

f. Stone and Brown-- _I've known bullies like them. It's the way they act, not the way they __look. Arrogant, sure of themselves. And always together._

g. Emma Smith-- _I'm positive I've met her before. I just don't know where_

Oddly, Miss Smith actually seemed much more familiar than any of the others. Everything about her, her manner, her voice, even the way she walked struck him forcefully as someone he had known once before. It screamed at him that he should definitely know her, and he had the strange idea that he had known her (or a woman very much like her) somehow... unpleasantly. Yet that was all the meager bit of fact he had to go on. He had no concrete evidence that they had once been acquainted, and she certainly didn't seem to know him. The phenomenon was definitely a mystery. A baffling one.

For a moment Snape pinched the bridge of his nose in irritation. _That Miss Smith!_ She was something else entirely! That woman was a phenomenon completely on her own, and one he had badly underestimated. Whatever handicaps she might have in regards to memory, there were none connected with her intelligence or spirit. He doubted that there ever could be. Emma Smith was a force to be reckoned with-- an intensely positive force. Given his reclusive nature, Snape wasn't sure that if had he known what would come of allowing her to get so close to him, that he wouldn't have run screaming in the opposite direction from her bright, infectious energy.

Yet the damage had been done. He didn't know how it had happened, but somehow his once unwanted secretary had managed to insert herself not only into his workday world, but into his thoughts as well. _And he couldn't even honestly say that he wanted to get her out._ Bizarrely enough, Miss Smith seemed to have a compelling effect on him. Though she irritated him, he almost actually liked her! It seemed now that no matter what he had originally felt about it, this vibrant, optimistic young woman would be a continuing fixture in his professional life. She was a revolution disguised in bushy curls and smile.

He shook his head and chuckled ruefully. Snape didn't know how she had done it, but despite his discouragement, she had somehow wrangled permission out of Hanscomb to start up an after school math and science club. And, as if that wasn't earth shattering enough (to add insult to injury) _she had even managed to get it funding!_ So now, whether he liked it or not, at least one of his days each week after class would be spent supervising a bunch of little dunderheads doing experiments or rehashing their homework. He really had no idea how he was going to tolerate it.

And it was doubly exasperating that the bovine Mrs. Osbourne was conveniently exempt from all this extra work. Miss Smith had involved her just enough for the woman to add her endorsement, and then let her skive off-- obviously so that Emma, herself, could take her place with the math instruction. It was a brilliantly executed diabolical plot yet he had to admit that there were positive elements. Normally, Snape would have been furious to the point of fulmination at having been railroaded so neatly, but the fact that _students_ _were actually signing up (!) _had gone far to mollify his injured temper.

Of course they were only signing up because of Miss Smith. Snape couldn't imagine _anyone _staying after school to listen to him. The students were captivated by her personality, her pert, pretty face, and her buoyant, youthful charm. And, naturally, they were curious. How they would behave when they realized that their hated, ugly, nastily sarcastic science teacher was as much a part of the proceedings would be anyone's guess. This club might end up being very short lived.

Still, the evidence of interest in science-- no matter what the cause-- was encouraging to Snape. There was no reason why he shouldn't go ahead with this impetuous plan of hers and see what it led to. He even thought he might step back a little to see what her unorthodox methods would be. Despite his dissatisfaction with teaching, Snape really did want to see his students learn to appreciate his field. It would give some sadly needed meaning to all the hard work he put into his job. He would love to see his students actually _do _something with what he tried to teach them. It was also encouraging to note that John Tupper was one of the students showing interest.

And here the thought of that particular student gave Snape cause to wonder. It was odd that out of all the students in his current care there was none whose progress mattered more to him than Tupper's. And why? Snape took a moment to seriously consider. Did the child bring back a memory? The boy did seem to remind him of someone (most people did these days) but he did so in a way that was curiously different. Snape never felt that gut-jolting sense of eerie familiarity when he looked at him as he did with Miss Smith, Stone, Powers, or especially Southby. The familiarity he felt with Tupper was strangely subtle. It was a thing of the soul more than the mind.

Suddenly Snape wondered if the person Tupper reminded him of was actually... himself. But could that really be? Had he once, in that shadow past he couldn't remember, been like this miserable child? The thought was sobering, but the more he considered it the more real and right it seemed. Snape could feel in his gut what it was like to be John Tupper-- to be the shy, sensitive, surly youth that was gifted with hidden potential but shunned and eyed with suspicion. He knew what it was like to be cornered on all sides by tormentors and ill wishers. He understood the despair, the rage, the shame.

For a moment, a shiver of unaccountable remembrance filled him and he felt his countenance shrink in stature to that of a boy again, a boy who skulked in shadows, eyed the world from behind a curtain of long black hair, and desperately yearned for better. Had that been him? Like Tupper, had his own home been one of deprivation, alcoholism, and fear? Snape had a deep aversion to pubs and alcohol in general. Was this the reason? The more he examined the idea, the more certain it seemed.

Though Snape had memories of a bland, middle class home life, he had known for a while now that most of those "memories" were probably false. He wasn't sure he _wanted _different memories if the real ones were unpleasant, but truth, however, was truth. He needed truth to unlock all the answers to the secrets that plagued him. And he found he was less afraid of discovering unpleasant truths than he was of living a life stuck in this frustrating Limbo of Lies. Besides, the fact that he had an obvious education and a professional career (such as it was) was proof to him that he had overcome whatever disadvantages fate had given him. No goal was hopeless if one was prepared to fight for it. This was what he had to convince Tupper. He added him to his list:

h. John Tupper-- _Reminds me of myself. I want to help him._

Upon acknowledging this thought, Snape found himself feeling better disposed toward Miss Smith's after school Math and Science Club. Perhaps he really could use it as a way to reach the boy-- and any of the other "lost kids." Perhaps he could spark interest in something other than delinquency and the Dole. Snape wondered what experiments might appeal to a child with a natural affinity for mechanics. Perhaps Emma would have suggestions. The fact that Miss Smith was well disposed toward Tupper made Snape look upon her with actual favor. This impetuous girl might actually be of _help_ to him.

And here Snape allowed himself a slightly evil smirk. He had found another advantage to all this and he was definitely going to use it. If Miss Smith was going to drag him kicking and screaming into her enthusiastic little plans, he was going to make damn sure he benefited. Since she seemed to have the Midas Touch, next time the science department needed supplies-- sulfuric acid, litmus strips, frogs, or fetal pigs, he was going send _HER _to get the money out of old tightwad Hanscomb! Snape smirked again. There was more than one way to skin a cat-- well, not that he'd ever ask for cats... But if one had an advantage, it would be criminal not to use it.

The word _Slytherin _again popped up in his mind, and he reminded himself that it was one of the things he was definitely going to research. He jotted the word down on another of his lists-- the list entitled:

**Odd things I have no explanation for:**

So far there were only two entries.

a. The Old Man-- _did I kill him? And if not, why do I keep remembering his death?_

b. The word "Slytherin"-- _sounds foolish. What could it possibly mean?_

He had kept this list until last and after making his last entry, he pushed it a little away from him. There were some things even now that he was loath to dwell upon.

Snape considered Miss Smith again. Yes, she was certainly a force of brightness and energy, but he knew that underneath it all she was just as miserable, just as frighteningly displaced, as he was. Snape had seen it. He had heard it in her voice when she had described her dreams of being lost, and the fact that her options were so pitifully limited. He also remembered her almost visible sense of aloneness.

To be honest, Snape didn't really mind being alone. In fact, he preferred solitude to the sort of unpleasant company most people seemed to be to him. His estrangement from those around him-- both his colleagues and his village neighbors-- had been deliberately self imposed. He didn't _want _to have anything to do with them. Yet there were times when he really did wish for congenial company, someone to play chess with or discuss meaningful topics. Someone who didn't bore him silly with every word they spoke. Someone very much like Miss Smith...

But here caution reared its ugly head. What he really needed and continually wished for was a sounding board-- someone he could bounce ideas off concerning his personal research or confide some of his deeper concerns. And Miss Smith couldn't logically be seen in that light. His most deepest and darkest concerns (should he decide to confide them) would only send her away screaming. There was no one he could trust with his burden of secrets-- especially his most recent batch of... memories.

Lately, Snape had been having some truly awful "visions." He hated to think that they might actually be memories, but unless he was a psychopath and generating these images from some inner reservoir of unfathomable evil (and he really didn't think so,) he had to conclude that he had seen these terrible things and had tried very hard to forget them. But when could that have been? How could he have been a witness to such unspeakable horrors?

Many of these scenes were violent in the extreme. Some looked like instances of torture where people were screaming even though Snape couldn't see what was actually causing their pain. There were scenes of debauchery, depravity, of brutal beatings and rape. He had images of rooms being wrecked, houses being torched-- and hovering over their burning roofs was a lurid picture of a green snake that shone evilly in the night sky. There were also numerous scenes of death.

Normally, Snape would have dismissed these images as things once viewed on the late night telly, but somehow he knew that they weren't. Television horror shows were impersonal. People watched them for thrills or for the unsavory experience of seeing something terrible happening to somebody else. They watched to confront their own fears from the safety of armchairs, and few would feel any _personal _fear because they knew none of it was real. The same thing, of course, went for guilt...

For Snape, however, these awful images had the uncomfortable feel of things he had seen first hand. He _felt _as if he had seen them, was _sure _that he had actually been part of them. But how could that have been? Snape didn't like violence. He didn't seek altercation. Sure he was a master of eviscerating sarcasm, but that was rather innocent actually. To his knowledge, Snape never really hurt anyone with his words. They were a defensive weapon, something to keep people away more than anything else. His biting sarcasm also made diabolically effective teaching tool.

While Snape knew he hadn't been blessed with the sort of star-studded personality that lured students to follow him from sheer, compelling magnetism (and he had a gut-level sneer in place for those that could) he still wanted the little blighters to learn. So he forced them. He bullied and shamed them into performing, lashed them with the cudgel of his words and flogged them with his uncompromising attitude. This made Snape a very unpopular teacher, but he did achieve results. Test scores for his department had actually risen since his advent at the school. A good teacher used whatever he could.

But Snape wasn't violent. Not at all. He didn't even care for violent sports. He didn't follow politics with much feeling either-- certainly not to a point that required action. Even religion didn't move him to the point of any strong emotion. It merely made him uneasy. The idea of a God being interested in him wasn't really comforting to Snape. Though he might wish in secret for some sort of divine regard, he feared that such attention would only be negative. Snape did his best push metaphysical speculation to the back of his mind. He felt it was safer that way.

At present, the only thing that roused a real passion within him was the practice and teaching of _science_. The establishment of TRUTH was what gave him energy and purpose. He could never be a part of the sort of grotesque, mindless excesses that were currently haunting his nightmares. _Where had these images come from?_ Had Snape once been a completely different man? He pondered that idea earnestly, hoping for a negative answer. The concept was truly appalling.

Since Snape now knew that most-- if not all-- of his memories were suspect, he really had no idea of what he had done in his past. He had no notion of what his background had been or the events that had shaped his formative years. He supposed it was possible that he had been and had done things totally foreign to his current mode of life. But though the possibility existed, he still felt it unlikely he could have changed in so radical a way. A man might lose his memory, but he'd never lose his soul.

In a distasteful exercise, Snape gritted his teeth and forced himself to recall one of those sick nightmare images. Yes, he thought with a shudder, it definitely seemed like a memory. There was a sense of familiarity about it. He felt instinctively that he _knew _the sorts of events he was seeing and that he even knew the perpetrators and the victims.

Thankfully, however, this did seem like like _reluctant _knowledge. Despite what he might have seen or done, Snape felt very sure that he had been an unwilling participant. Part of his overall horror was a sense of guilt and helpless contrition. Every terrible memory came with a sense of being trapped in something he couldn't get out of, of being lost and inescapably tainted. He felt desperate fear-- not fear necessarily for himself, but fear of being caught, of not being able to keep someone else from being hurt, of being stopped from doing something important.

And here was where he was totally confused. There was definitely a sense that he had once been part of something important. But what could that possibly have been? What vital thing could _he_ have once been doing?

The word "spy" came into his mind but he dismissed it immediately as crazy. Him, a _SPY? _Why that was ludicrous! Who would hire Alan Snape, a high school science teacher, as an undercover secret agent? That was a notion deserving the rubber room! Nothing on earth could be so unlikely.

Or was it? Could it actually be possible? Was that the reason he was stuck here in this nothing little town working this nothing little job? Could this be the sort of place they sent retired spies who weren't conveniently killed in action? Was a covert government agency hiding him here ( in what had to be the most innocuous place in Britain) for his own protection? Or was this some sort of Secret Agent Purgatory? Perhaps he had screwed up so badly that he'd been sent here for punishment...

A flare of sickness assaulted his stomach and he tried very hard, and very unsuccessfully, to think of something else. The idea of punishment felt right to him but it was something he didn't want to acknowledge. The questions it brought up were unpalatable. _What was it that he had done?_ _What mission had he botched?_ _What good had he failed to do? _And then, of course, was the clinker: _Was this a permanent punishment?_ Considering the fact that he had been given fake memories, he had to infer that it was supposed to be permanent. But why were those memories now fading? And did those involved know that those planted memories were fading away?

Snape's feeling of sickness intensified. That was something he REALLY didn't want to consider! It opened a whole new Pandora's box of horrors. _Would there be consequences for regaining his memories? Would somebody do something worse to him? Was he being watched even now?_ _And how could he protect himself if he didn't even know who had it out for him? _More shivers assailed him, and he had an instinctual urge to find the deepest hole possible and bury himself in it. He felt agoraphobic, completely exposed, horrifyingly and helplessly vulnerable.

But even in the face of such unsettling fears, Snape still felt that the most prudent thing he could do would be to gather information. Knowledge, after all, was power. Knowledge was defense. He had to learn every thing he possibly could about his situation and his supposed past. But of course he had to be extremely careful. He couldn't let anyone see that he was regaining any memories. He would have to take it one tiny step at a time. He needed to know who his enemy was.

Which brought him back to Miss Smith. Who really was she? Was she somehow involved as well? Emma Smith had also experienced a bizarre loss of memory-- uncannily at about the same time period that he had. Could she also be a victim of the same unknown enemy?

Snape felt an odd surge of protectiveness. It might be possible that _he _was being punished for some unnameable offense, but it didn't seem likely that the same could be said for her. Miss Smith was too young and she was obviously innocent. It didn't seem logical that a soul such as hers could have done anything that would involve the same "punishment" as what seemed to have been meted out to him.

The question, however, still remained. Was her presence purposeful? Or was it merely coincidence? What were the odds that two individuals-- both from out of town and working in the same place-- would also have an inexplicable memory loss that dated from the same period of time? And how did he explain the fact that she seemed so familiar to him? Or that just like him, she had no trouble at all in using his antique quill pen?

That, for no other reason, was the impetus for him to want to work with her, to learn as much about her condition as he could. Perhaps in uncovering some of her lost memories, he could find the key to his own-- that was providing he actually uncovered something...

He knew, of course, that he might not be able to help her. He was a teacher not a psychologist, and he certainly was no expert in memory loss. Experts of all kinds had already had a go at her and had come away empty handed. It was unlikely that he would have any better result. What could he possibly do that the experts hadn't? Why did he think he could succeed where they had failed?

But here the answer was simple. Snape didn't trust the experts. He had a scientific mind, and all his instincts screamed to him that something here was suspect. It had been some sort of "experts" who had brainwashed, reprogrammed him, and laid the clever paper trail that covered his background and made his fake life plausible. It was possible that these "experts" didn't have his best interests at heart... or hers either. Who knew what the agenda had been when the so-called "experts" had been dealing with Miss Smith's loss of her memories. What was the proof that they hadn't really been the _cause?_

And Snape also knew that the "experts" in his case weren't infallible. His own recovering memories were proof. No matter how knowledgeable or powerful these forces had been, they were certainly not gods since their efforts didn't last. There was a real possibility that Snape, himself, would triumph, would discover what they were trying to hide from him, that he would recover all that he had lost.

There was no way of knowing whether or not helping Miss Smith recover her memories would speed his own along, but Snape felt compelled to try it anyway. Somewhere in his gut he was sure there was a connection. There had to be. Why else would they be linked by such odd coincidences? Why else would she seem so familiar? And why would he feel this need, this sense of almost _obligation_ to help her as though she was in some way his responsibility? Why did he care?

Musing over that and over all the other inexplicable things he had to muse over in his strange life, Snape began a new list.

**Possible Questions to ask Miss Smith:**

Well, he had to start somewhere.


	14. Charting Territory

These characters and their setting are the property of J. Rowling and her associates and affiliates.

_Author's Note: Please forgive any spelling/gramatical/geographical mistakes. I did the best I could..._

**Chapter 14: Charting Territory**

Emma watched as Snape looked over her papers, pursing his lips as he reviewed them. In his hands were the transcripts from the nursing home describing her condition and recovery, her surmised and presumed education, a summary of the tests she had been subjected to with the subsequent deductions of the the "experts," and the much smaller list he had asked her to compile for him concerning her own discoveries. She wondered, somewhat anxiously, what he would make of all the information. Most of it didn't look promising. Oddly enough, it was her personal list that interested him the most.

"Hmm, let us see now," he mused. "You know next to nothing about Rugby, Cricket, Football, or Tennis- which you had already told me. And you know little to nothing concerning childbirth- another thing we have already established." He paused and looked up at her with one eyebrow raised.

"But the fact that you have almost no _cooking_ knowledge could be significant. It might mean that you have never lived on your own or have survived primarily on tinned food and take-away. It could mean that grew up in a household where you were not expected to help in the kitchen. A wealthy family, perhaps, though I am not inclined to think so. The upper classes are far less likely to "lose" one of their own. Were you an heiress of some sort I'm sure you would have been found and claimed long before now. My guess is you came from the professional classes, from a home in which academic skills were stressed above domestic ones. That would also explain the high level of education."

His smile was a little ironic. "Though I do find your lack of _farming_ knowledge significant."

"I know a lot about plants, though," she put in helpfully. "Just not how to grow _food_ plants- at least not much beyond theory."

She received a sardonic smirk. "Well then, perhaps you were a florist. Someone who arranged posies into charming little love knots."

"Oh I hope not," she shuddered with a grimace. "I can't imagine even _wanting _to do that now!"

"Indeed," he snorted and then looked at her consideringly. "So you have no knowledge of flower arranging? What about the other Gentle Arts? Can you sew or knit? What about drawing, painting, embroidery and...( and now it was his turn to grimace) ...scrap booking?"

"I can knit, I think." She frowned. "Well, a little. The knowledge seems a little hazy."

"Really? What facts about knitting do you know? If I were to give you a set of knitting needles and some yarn what garment would you know enough to make for me?"

Emma thought for a moment. Then she shook her head. If she knew anything about knitting it had been from a long time ago, and she had obviously given it up.

"The only pattern I can visualize is hats. Very small ones. I probably made hats for dolls when I was little. I can't imaging that to be very useful."

"No. Not to this discussion. Though your lack of traditional feminine pursuits may shed a small light on your past life. For instance, it is highly unlikely your mother was an avid quilter or you would have picked up more than just a token bit of trivia. But back to what I was saying about your lack of farm knowledge. It is far more useful.

"Beyond the fact that life in this community must seem rather tedious for you, it does point to an either urban or near-urban upbringing. Therefore, we should be looking for a home from either the merchant, professional, or academic classes, in or outside a major city. Not much to go on, but it is a start."

Emma smiled up at him. Why, that was more than just a start. This man was amazing! All she had given him was just a few insignificant clues and look what he had figured out already! Why hadn't all those psychologists and memory experts done that? Had they simply not cared? But then Emma couldn't help but remember the frustration, disappointment, and possible embarrassment many had tried to hide when their efforts had yielded nothing. It really did seem that they had tried.

They were probably only following the strict training of their disciplines- which didn't allow much creativity. Most people didn't know how to think "outside the box," and perhaps it took someone from _outside _to try something different. Suddenly, Emma felt inordinately blessed that she had been sent to this odd, out of the way little district. However else could she have met Mr. Snape? She felt uncannily sure that some Benevolent Power just had to be watching out for her.

"Now let's go on to languages," Snape continued. "According to your file, you are quite comfortable reading some of the Greek and Latin classics- which points to a Classical Education. Obviously then, you couldn't have attended an average Comprehensive school, but most likely a private or select school, maybe even one of the few surviving Grammar schools. You may also have been taught at home. Tell me, can you speak any other languages- French, German, Italian?"

There was a pause while Emma looked inward. "I can speak a little bit of French, I think. But I don't think I could carry on a conversation in it. Perhaps I studied it once but didn't get very far."

Snape ten handed her a sheet of paper upon which were written:

_Ble rwyt ti'n, ble yduch chi wedi bod?_

_Pan_

_Araf _

_Ildiwch_

_Dim mynediad_

_Un ffordd_

_Rhybudd_

"Does any of that look familiar?"

Emma studied it seriously. "That's... Welsh, isn't it?"

"Yes, can you read it?"

"No."

That earned her a smile. "Well then, from that we can deduce that you are not from Wales."

"Oh, but wait a minute!" she scoffed. "I know you're smart. You might even be brilliant. But that's just a little premature, don't you think? Not everyone who live in Wales speaks Welsh! There are all sorts of little English pockets all over it. How do you know I didn't come from one of those?"

Eyes so dark they were almost black gleamed at her smugly. It really was smugly.

"Because of the words that you didn't know, Miss Smith. Had you been from an English family who had lived in Wales but never bothered to learn the language you probably wouldn't have been able to read the first sentence, _'Where are you going, where have you been?' _But you would have known at least one of the other words or phrases. You see, Wales is officially bilingual, and all the traffic signs are bilingual. If you had grown up in that country you would have seen some of those words over and over. _Araf, _for Slow. _Pan, _for Stop. _Ildiwch, _for Give Way. _Rhybudd, _for Warning. But you didn't know them. Hence, you are not from Wales."

"And I have already concluded that you are probably not from Scotland either. Your speech has no trace of Scots in it, and your accent is almost textbook BBC. Though it is possible that you could have been reared in Scotland by some ultra-English family, kept in seclusion from your Scottish neighbors, and educated in an a very select all English institution, I honestly highly doubt it. No, I think it safe to concentrate our search for your origins in areas primarily Anglo-Saxon."

Snape leaned back in his chair and gazed intently at her. "Now for the exercise I had planned for you. My major question for you today, Miss Smith, is what do you know about... railways?"

Emma didn't know why she was surprised at the question. After all, they had discussed everything from domestic arts to language, but it was just one more unexpected thing. _Railways? That was novel. _Facts, however, rushed quickly into her mind and she warmed to it eagerly. Here was something she knew! Sitting up straight, hands upon her lap, she proceeded to give him the history of British Railways from the invention of the steam engine and the laying of track, to the importance of rapid transport for the rise of the Industrial Revolution. Snape listened for a few minutes with a stunned sort of expression. Then he held up an imperious hand.

"Oh _enough_, woman!" His face showed an almost disbelieving scowl. "I see what you mean by a wealth of knowledge, but you sound like a Victorian school girl giving a recitation! I can imagine what you must have been like as a child. Your teachers must have found you an insufferable know-it-all!"

The rebuke stung, and Emma almost snapped something sharp in return but a sudden, inexplicable thought made her want to laugh instead. A picture popped into her mind of a blond, blue clad figure- Alice from Alice in Wonderland- standing seriously at attention with her hands clasped behind her.

_How doth the little bumblebee... _

Oh dear. That WASN'T a good impression! Musing that perhaps she had appeared just a _trifle_ absurd, instead of snarling at Mr. Snape, she decided to smile.

"You know I think I probably was. I seem to have a rather serious nature, and I also seem to like correcting people and telling them things I think they need to hear. I've been trying to hold myself back but I feel the urge all the time. It's just that I like to learn things and those things seem to want to announce themselves. Simply knowing facts isn't enough, I guess. I want to share what I know."

She paused and then asked. "But tell me something, Mr. Snape. You obviously don't like know-it alls, but as a teacher I should think you'd appreciate students that _know_ the answers. Why dislike them?"

"It's also obvious that you've never been a teacher," he remarked dryly. "We can add that to our list."

Snape took his odd, archaic quill out of its box on his desk and studied it. "Yes I do want my students to know the answers, but know-it-alls are just show offs. Know-it-alls want to answer ALL the questions and they are constantly looking for approval." He sighed. "Even if they are brilliantly smart, they are so terribly insecure that you can't give them _enough_ approval. And they disrupt the classroom. When there is a know-it-all in class, the other students don't volunteer. They all stop trying, stop _thinking_, because somebody else is doing all their work for them."

He uncapped a bottle of ink. "I think what I really find irritating about such students is their 'in your face' sort of neediness. Their lack of restraint sets my teeth on edge. Students who act that way always set themselves up for ridicule. It's like watching a constantly reoccurring train wreck."

"Oh," she said. "I see."

And suddenly she did. Emma couldn't remember her own school days but she could well imagine her own hand raised at every opportunity. She could feel within herself a deep well of insecurity, and an aching need for acceptance and approval. The difference was that now she was an adult and had obviously learned some subtlety. Whatever she had once been, she was certainly no longer the same. The long, hard struggle to regain her strength had taught her patience. The disappointment of not finding her identity and of no one coming forward to claim her had taught her humility. And the horror of her devastating memory loss had taught her caution.

Emma looked seriously at Mr. Snape and felt a wave of warmth. He might grumble and complain, but he really was a good man. He cared about his students. For all his gruff and bluster about know-it-alls, it hadn't escaped her notice that what bothered him the most was watching them make fools of themselves. _Seeing them get hurt_. It seemed to Emma that Mr. Snape was hardest on these students because he knew what it was like- because he was that way himself. She smiled at him again.

"Well, I will try not to recite so thoroughly if you will try to be a little more patient."

"Hmm... Well, we shall see what we shall see." He unfolded a map. "And now that we've established that you do indeed understand the railway system, let us get down to specifics."

And here Snape began to ask her some very specific questions concerning individual stations. He would ask her a station name and then ask her what city or town it was in. Most of the names meant nothing to her at all, but occasionally one would. Every time she appeared to know something Snape would scratch notes furiously with his odd little quill or make careful marks on a map.

"Where is Snow Hill Station?"

"I don't know."

"Burley Park?"

"No idea."

"Hamworthy?"

"Pool, I think."

Snape made a mark on his map.

"How about Ardwick Station?"

"Nope."

"Campbell Street?"

She shook her head.

"Euston Station"

"Oh, London."

"Where is Hunts Cross Station?"

"No idea."

"Parson's Street?"

"I don't know."

And it went on and on. Snape read off what felt like hundreds of railway stations and made careful notation when Emma could tell him the town they were in. And she could tell he was purposefully not making it easy. He never chose names that would be obvious like Harrow-on-the-Hill or Ealing Broadway. None of the station names he asked explicitly gave away the town it was situated in. She had to admit it was clever even though it was incredibly tedious.

"Gildea Park."

"Havering."

"Five Ways?"

"Don't know"

"Seven Kings"

"Redbridge"

"Nunhead?"

"Southwark, in London."

"How about New Podsey?"

"No."

"Bridgehouses?"

"Nope."

After what seemed like an eternal list of stations, some that she knew (Sidcup, Crouch End,Upwey) and an interminable amount of other stations ( Bridge Street, Backworth, Eccles, and Mickleover) that she didn't, Snape changed his tactic.

"Excellent. Now I am going to ask you the names of towns and villages which may or may not contain a railway station, and you are to tell me if you know where they are and anything specific about them. And please do not guess. Don't try to figure out their geographic location by name etymology or anything of that sort. This is not an A-level exam! Just tell me if you know them or tell me if you don't." He picked up his quill and dipped it in the ink.

"Wibsey?"

"No idea."

"Breightmet?"

"No."

As with the stations, most of these names were just abstract syllables, mere words that she assumed denoted places. But others resonated deep. She found she knew _exactly _where some of them were, and she also discovered she knew a few extra things about them. And the knowledge seemed completely natural. Sometimes she could even see pictures in her mind though she couldn't remember if she had actually lived in those places or had only passed through. No personal memories swam to the surface of her brain, but she had to admit she had more information now than she ever had before.

"Swainsthorpe?"

"No."

"Failsworth?"

"Nope."

"Gravesend?"

"That's in Kent. On the Thames. There's a statue of Pocahontas there."

"Indeed. Interesting. What about Mangottsfield?"

"No."

"Flitwick."

"I think that's somebody's name."

"Very likely. Most towns were named after someone. It's man's bid for everlasting renown. Do you know where Flitwick _is_?"

"Well, no."

"Humph. How about Dursely?"

"Nope."

"Throup."

"That's outside Bournemouth."

"Rickmansworth?"

"That's in Hertfordshire. Three Rivers. They call it 'Ricky.'"

"Do they? How silly. What is it, a tourist attraction?"

"Civic pride most likely. Though they do have a festival in May called _Ricky's Week."_

"I rest my case."

Emma watched Snape in almost fascination as he dipped his quill into one of his archaic little inkwells to make his next entry. Why was he using that quill? Weren't pens easier? Pens were certainly quieter. Every time he wrote it made a noticeable "scritch." Emma didn't really find it all that unpleasant, but it did seem unnecessarily loud. A whole roomful of students "scritching" away with quills might be severely distracting. She was getting a bit distracted now.

"Why do you keep using that quill, Mr. Snape?"

"Because I like to," was his rather sour answer. "Where is Grimsargh?"

"No idea."

"How about Barking?"

"Outside London. I think they had an asylum there. It's where the term _barking mad _came from."

"Hmm."

The thought of asylums made her shake her head. For all his brilliance, Snape seemed a little on the barking side himself. _Because he liked to? _What sort of an answer was that?

Oh, Snape was certainly strange. He was aloof and chillingly formal; intense and profoundly fascinating; yet he also seemed somewhat bizarrely unconnected. Even the way he walked was odd. He often moved with a flourish the way an Elizabethan actor would in a long, drapey costume, or a silver screen swashbuckler preparing to duel. Emma wondered idly if he had once been a dancer.

Well... probably not. Snape was a man of science, not art. And for all his sarcastic bite, Emma could tell he was deeply, painfully shy. Unless he did _Tai Chi _in his spare time, he probably wasn't terribly physical. She wondered what he would think of her if she asked him if he liked to dance... Most likely he'd think the question too personal. As it was, he seemed a little prickly about his quill.

"Where is Immingham?"

"Don't know."

"Felixtowe?"

"No idea."

"Grange Park?"

"Enfield." And here she suddenly laughed. "It's next to World's End. Isn't it funny that they named a town the End Of The World? I wonder if it has to do with war. There used to be an arms factory there."

More furious scritching ensued, and all without a splatter of ink or a snag or puncture on the map. Emma had to admit that Snape wrote better with the quill than most people did with pens. He had an elegant, if spidery, script that looked as far removed from "Draftsman's Gothic" as a Shakespeare was from _Dr. Who. _It was like watching someone from David Copperfield or The Pickwick Papers come to life right in front her. Emma could picture him in a flowing Victorian cape, the habit and cowl of a medieval monk, or some formal garb from a Jane Austen novel. And all just from watching him write! How fanciful. And how odd that she could use that silly quill as well. Why was that? Surely that wasn't a common skill. And they had just recently proved that...

"Belle Vale?"

"No."

"Torpoint?"

"Nope."

"How about Ufford?"

"No."

"Kimmeridge?"

"That's on the Jurrassic Coast. There is a shale cliff there."

Emma listened to the sound of the quill. That quill had been part of an excellent first lesson for their after school Math and Science Club. In their introductory meeting, Snape had given all the students who showed up (a mere six out of the twelve who had initially signed) a series of exercises to measure learning curve. Some of the tasks were designed to test manual dexterity. The students had try each task several times to see how quickly they could master it, or at least show improvement. Then they had to chart their progress and calculate their learning curve for each. Those with the fastest rates and steepest curves were rewarded from a tin of Mr. Hanscomb's lemon drops. Whether or not the students actually liked the exercise (and they did seem to) they really liked the sweets.

The quill was one of the dexterity tasks, and the children had found it extremely amusing- and messy. No one had come even close to mastering it. Snape had watched with particular (and peculiar) interest when students were using his quill, and Emma had thought that was because he was worried about it being damaged. Which she couldn't help but find silly. _If it bothered him so much, why let them touch it at all?_ But now that she considered, it looked more like he was watching carefully to see if anyone would be able to just pick it up and write with it. Like she had. Why was that so important to him? Perhaps it was only her imagination.

"Bulkington."

"No."

"Breaston?"

"No idea."

"Tilehurst?"

"That's near Reading."

Yes, maybe she was making more out of that quill than it warranted. Certainly none of the students noticed anything odd. They had been having too good a time. And since most of them thought anything Snape did was odd anyway, a simple, sharp, watchful look would only seem mundane. It was far _more_ shocking that a Math and Science Club conducted by Snape would turn out to be fun and games! Indeed, Emma was a little shocked as well... and pleased. Because of the science teacher's harsh demeanor and initial disinterest, Emma had rather expected to have to be the leader in club activities, but Snape had taken complete charge. The man was trying to make it a success! Well, it just went to show how _good _a teacher Mr. Alan Snape really was.

"Beerhead?"

"That's in Devon."

"Ramsbottom?"

"No idea."

"Wednesfield?"

"No."

Of course Emma had been considerably worried at the time that Snape had gone a little _too _soft and fuzzy for his first club meeting. Excepting the quill, most of the dexterity exercises made use of toys- very simple old fashioned toys such as a wooden top, tiddly winks, marbles, and jacks. Though the children had liked the fun and games, and had probably never before seen these particular archaic toys, she wondered if they would seriously see them as _science. _

But she soon found she needn't have worried. After the students had calculated their rates of improvement (with help from her as the junior maths instructor) Snape put on an impressive show concerning rates of reaction. He gave them a demonstration of the "Old Nassau Reaction" involving beakers of KIO3, HgCl2, and simple starch dissolved in water. As he carefully mixed the chemicals from one beaker into another, the colorless solution changed dramatically bright orange and then suddenly into black. All the students had been impressed. So was she.

"Calstock?"

"No idea."

Potters Bar?"

"No."

"Woking?"

"Surrey. They have a huge public library there."

"Oh, by the way," she added. "That chemistry experiment you put on for the club was a really nice touch. But wouldn't it have been better to have the students take part in it? Isn't hands-on participation part of what this club is supposed to be all about?"

Dark eyes observed her gravely.

"I chose that particular experiment because of its show value. But THINK, Miss Smith. Potassium iodate and mercury chloride are _poisons. _The last thing we need is one of the little monsters dropping a flask on the floor, throwing it at someone else, or deciding, on a whim, to _taste_ it! Remember that I don't possess a magical antidote to shove down their throats (and here he shuddered inexplicably) or a flying ambulance to air lift them to a hospital. Science must be treated with respect."

He put down his quill and capped his bottle of ink. "Besides, if Hanscomb ever discovered that I let toxic materials anywhere near a student, we would be shut down immediately and all that lovely funding you procured for the Science Club, and consequently the science department, would vanish into thin air. And we wouldn't want _that,_ now would we?" His warning tone was ironically dry.

Emma gave him a rueful grimace. "No. I suppose you're right. I should have thought of the danger. It's just that it would never occur to me to act stupid around chemicals."

Snape actually smiled. A grim smile. "Which is why I am the teacher and not you, Miss Smith. I know what the little dunderheads are truly capable of. Although," he added, "I'm sure you'll learn it as well if you stick with this long enough. Teaching, like soldiering, ages you years before your time."

He looked beyond her at the clock and Emma turned around to view it as well. Two hours! _They had been at this for that long?_ It was obvious from Snape's actions in capping his ink that the session was over, and Emma was suddenly a little sad. The endless parade of names had been more than a little tedious, but she was actually sorry to have it end. All the attention had been nice, and she had cherished the hope that they would discover some secret. As it was, she didn't feel any breakthroughs had been made. She hadn't known very many of the names. Had they actually gotten anywhere?

"Have you found anything?" She asked tentatively, hoping against hope for a 'yes."

Snape looked at her in smug, but guarded triumph. "Actually, I have. Though I am surprised you haven't made the connection yourself."

"Me?" Emma felt a little put out. How could she have done so? "_You _are the man with the map!"

"Well, that's true," he chuckled. "But you are intelligent woman with an incredible memory for facts- interminable acres of them. Maybe you haven't realized it consciously, but I'm sure that on some level you are noticing the similarities between the places you have been able to identify and are coming to the same conclusion that I have. Come here and take a look."

Snape pointed to the map on his desk and beckoned Emma to come forward. There on the map were patterns of circles drawn in bold, black ink. The majority of those circles seemed to cluster.

"As you can see from the distribution pattern, you seem to be from the south. You knew none of the railway stations in Leeds, Liverpool, Manchester, or Birmingham. Neither did you recognize many of their surrounding towns. And while you did know that Temple Meades station was located in Bristol, that was the only name associated with that area that you knew. You also do not appear to have come from Newcastle, York or Norwich. The only city you have any familiarity with at all is... London."

"Now since we had already determined that your place of origin was not rural, I concentrated most of my inquiries on urban areas. I did, however also ask a fair amount of questions regarding areas of cultural, scientific, or historical interest. From what you did and didn't tell me, I know that you have never been to Yorkshire, Northumbria, the Lakes District, or Cornwall. You have, however, been all over the southern coast, particularly in the area of Dorset."

"Dorset. Really?" Emma was instantly intrigued. The Dorset coast was sparely populated compared to London. It seemed a much easier place for a search. "Do you think maybe I came from there?"

"It's possible," Snape frowned, "But I doubt it. While residents of Greater London may take frequent holidays to the seaside, very few residents from Dorset would be anywhere near as familiar with the London area as you are.

He looked at her very seriously. "You knew every railway station within Inner London that I asked you- even those that are somewhat obscure- and you recognized every town in the Greater London Commuter Belt. It seems to me that only a resident of the city or its suburbs would have that much familiarity. From the number of the towns that you recognized, and the details you have been able to provide, it is certain that _that's_ where you came from."

"For instance," he went on, "you knew about Windlesham's Boxing Day Pram Race, the ten libraries in Merton, and the fact that in Hemel Hempstead there is a traffic junction so complicated it's been termed the 'magic roundabout.' You also knew the name of the theme park in Chertsey, that Erith contains the longest pier on the Thames, and that in Joydens Wood there are three separate species of newt."

"Now, someone from outside the area might know one or two bits of London geographical trivia, but I truly doubt they would know even half as much of the information you have supplied me. And from that I am convinced that you are either from London itself, or from one of the outlying towns and have traveled traveled much in the city. Perhaps your family has moved frequently. At any rate, it gives us a target area to carry out our next research session."

Emma looked at the map with a touch of awe, but she slumped a little too. "London is huge," she said pensively. "It would be like looking for a needle in a haystack."

"Perhaps. But I shouldn't give up hope so soon, Miss Smith. Your recent past experiences have conditioned you to failure, but you must admit we've made great progress. There are still plenty of promising avenues left for us to pursue."

"You're right," she said, chastened. "You've made more progress here than I'd ever imagined you could. At least we now know _something._"

Looking up at the dark, austere man, Emma felt a warm rush of gratitude, and more than a little shame. Mr. Snape had done so much for her, gone to what looked like an awful lot of trouble, and all she did was complain! The least she could do was to tell him how much she appreciated it. At that moment Emma almost wished she could give him a hug.

"Uh, Mr. Snape?"

"Yes."

"Thank you."

Snape's face tightened a little as though he was uncomfortable with being thanked and his voice took on a stiffer, gruffer tone. "You do realize that this is a fascinating experiment for me. Possibly groundbreaking. You are contributing in no small way to the understanding of memory science."

"Of course."

"And by the way. Since I can't come up with everything myself, I want you to make a list of some possible projects for our future Science Club meetings. Pay particular attention to activities that would benefit the sorts of students we wish to inspire. For instance, can you suggest anything suitable for a gifted yet underprivileged student interested in mechanics?"

An image of a blond boy poking a quill gingerly into a bottle of ink amid laughter and cat-calls came to Emma's mind, and she was sure Snape was talking about Tupper. The youth had been interesting to watch. The shy, unpopular boy had quietly persisted at every task, and he had done surprisingly well. Emma remembered how he had examined each apparatus, even the quill, with critical, almost scientific care before attempting them. The boy was obviously intelligent, though defensively aloof and sorely in need of encouragement. Just the sort of student this club was meant to help.

Emma was proud Mr. Snape was taking an interest in the difficult students, and suddenly she had all sorts of engineering ideas dancing in her head. She smiled at the man in conspiratorial excitement.

"Oh, don't worry. I've got loads!"

_Author's note: I hope this chapter didn't seem too foolish. I'm not from Britain, and I knew next to nothing about practical British geography, but I purchased a map and spent a lot of time on Wikipedia. One of the things I think is wonderful about the UK is the fact that public transport goes almost everywhere. That's not true in the States. Snape's method would NOT have worked here. Perhaps it wouldn't even work in England, but for the sake of this story, it does._

_Author's Note 2: I would like to hear from you. One of the small subplots of this story is Snape's interaction with the boy Tupper, and with trying to help him. So here's the question: What sort of engineering activity do you think would be best for the boy? He's a natural whiz at fixing cars. Should I have him do something with modified engines? Should he get into Green power(windmills, etc?) How about robotics? I can picture him able to construct a robotic arm out of junk parts... What else... bridge design? A trebuchet? Give me your ideas! I will give them all equal consideration._

_And as always, thank you for continuing to read my story. The fact that you do really makes my day._


	15. Missing Link

These characters and their setting are the property of J. Rowling and her associates and affiliates.

_Author's note: So sorry for the long delay! And so sorry if this chapter is not up to snuff. I just can't agonize over it anymore. _

**Chapter 15: **_**A Missing Link **_

Snape gazed at the glowing screen of the computer and tapped another key. He scribbled something quickly into his notebook and tapped the key again.

He was on a weekend fact finding expedition at the public library in Leeds. Since it had dawned on him that those responsible for his condition might be keeping an eye on him (and would not take kindly to him regaining his memories,) he had decided that any serious research would have to be done where he wasn't likely be monitored. Internet connections could always be traced. Therefore, it wouldn't be wise to use his own recently acquired computer, or even that of the school, to look up material that might possibly be sensitive. The best course of action would be to go someplace anonymous.

Though he would have much preferred using the London Library for his mechanical sleuthing, he had reasoned that Leeds would be better. Snape had false memories of attending the Leeds Metropolitan University, so it made perfect sense for him to go there. Traveling to Leeds would make it look as if he was still under thrall to those false memories. And no one would know who he was if he was on a library computer using the library's Internet connection...

What he was primarily interested in was a time period- that of three years ago- the time he had begun his present employment, and the same time that Miss Smith had coincidentally been found unconscious by the side of a road. It intrigued him. According to Emma, she had been found only a month or so before he arrived at his current job. Though it wasn't an exact correlation, the times were still uncannily close. Why should they both have that time frame in common? What were the odds? Snape wanted to see if there was anything interesting about the year in question. After an extensive search he did find something singular. What it was, however, was certainly not encouraging.

Three years ago there had been a hotbed of political unrest and a frightening rash of terrorist activity. People had disappeared, bridges had collapsed, houses had been torched, and weird activity of all kinds had been reported. But the oddest thing was that no mention was made, in any source, of a specific political organization. No known terrorist group claimed responsibility, and nowhere was there mention of the usual perpetrators: the IRA, the Taliban, or even Al-Qaeda. All Snape could find, no matter how carefully he searched, were a few scattered references to a fugitive named Sirius Black who had escaped from a prison four years previous.

Snape pinched the bridge of his nose. None of what he read made sense. If bridges were collapsing and public landmarks being exploded, surely the government would issue some strong statements or declare war on the culprit involved. In past instances, Northern Ireland had usually been the suspect, but in this case the IRA was oddly quiet and the British government made no accusations and took no retaliation. Snape just couldn't understand it. Activity of this magnitude should lead to finger pointing, bombastic rhetoric, or massive troop deployment. Yet nothing had seemed to have been done. And then, suddenly, the whole thing had just stopped. Instituting a computer search for the name "Sirius Black" he came up with a picture.

And froze.

The face of the supposed terrorist was crazed. His hair was matted and his clothing disreputable, but as Snape stared at the gaunt, haunted, wild eyed visage, his gut contracted in absolute horror.

He knew this man. He was positive of it. The face in the picture was very familiar and that familiarity was in no way superficial. Not only did Snape feel that he had seen this face before, he felt he had known him _personally_... and hated him. This was an enemy. A deadly nemesis. So might the face of Moriarty have looked to Sherlock Holmes. So might Dracula have appeared to Van Helsing...

The pictured face filled Snape with righteous anger, buried fear, and a deep and furious loathing. But why? How had he known this Sirius Black? How close had the acquaintance been? Since the hatred Snape felt was incredibly strong, the connection must been very personal. It had to have been- _especially since he still hated the man without even knowing the reason why! _

Had the man, Black, hurt or even killed someone Snape had cared for? Had Snape, himself, been one if his victims? Ghost images of the bullies he had remembered before floated to the forefront of his mind. Had he known this man as a boy, or did the supposed terrorist just remind him of bullies in general? HOW had Snape known him? Were they really once enemies? He just had to remember!

After considering the face intently for a few moments, Snape suddenly felt very positive that the connection was an extremely old one. Though the pictured visage was wasted and haggard, Snape could see in his mind _exactly_ how the man would have looked in his handsome youth. He also had the uncanny notion that the man was dead even though he could find no report anywhere that he had died or that the search for him had ever been ended.

So how did Snape know he was dead? Had he also possibly killed him as he had possibly killed the Old Man? Was he a criminal? Was this proof? _How many people had he actually killed? _

Shivers ran through him and Snape felt almost dizzy as waves of panic took over his body. He felt his face flush, his heart race, and he didn't seem to be able to catch his breath. Could he really be a murderer? And if he was, what was he doing here trying to dredge it all up? Might it actually be better if he didn't? If those mysterious powers had tried to wipe out his memory, couldn't it be possible that they had a reason? Why was it that he felt he'd have no peace at all until he finally uncovered the answers? Why couldn't he just let it go?

White knuckled hands gripping the edge of his chair, Snape closed his eyes and and concentrated on calming himself. He tried frantically to still his thoughts and blank his wild, raging emotions. Oddly (and this really surprised him,) he found it wasn't all that hard to do. Within minutes of his efforts his heart rate slowed to normal parameters, the flushed feeling ebbed from his face, and his racing thoughts fell into orderly patterns. The change was near instantaneous, and it was almost effortless as well- which was another inexplicable mystery. Snape had the bizarre feeling that he had done this exercise countless times before. _And why in the world should that be? _

What was even stranger was that the mental exercise seemed to clarify and intensify some of his "flashback" memories, bringing them more readily to the surface, but in an emotionally bearable way. In a somewhat detached frame of mind, Snape saw again the image of a handsome, laughing young man accompanied by a messy haired bespectacled youth, and he knew this was an image from his past just as he knew he was seeing Sirius Black as a boy- that he had known him when he also had been young, that he and the other youth had been the bullies who had once made his life hell...

But this was even more bizarre. How coincidental was it that he should have known the only documented member of a deadly terrorist cell and then to have been conveniently brainwashed and reprogrammed at about the same time that the same terrorist cell was wreaking its worst damage right before it disappeared all together? What could be the connection? Were the terrorist masterminds the ones who had brainwashed him, or was it the Authorities? And how did he know, inexplicably, that the supposed mastermind was dead?

Snape cast about carefully in his meditative state willing memories to swim up to the surface. He saw a young Black jeering at him and pointing at him with a stick. (Was he going to poke him with it?) He saw a grown Black glance at him nastily as he officiated in a wedding that made Snape almost nauseous. (The bride was a heart stoppingly beautiful red-head. Was that why Ramsbottom struck him so horribly? Could she be reminding him of a tragic lost love?) Lastly, he saw an image of an older, clean but haggard Black pointing yet another stick at him (what was with these sticks anyway?) while being anxiously restrained by a black haired boy with glasses. (Ah, that's who Southby looks like...) No images of a dead or dying Sirius Black came to him. Snape was immeasurably grateful.

So it was possible that he hadn't killed this one time enemy- even though he still felt enough hatred to know that he could have. But where were the answers to all these mysteries? Why had Snape been brainwashed and callously dumped in the back of beyond? Had he once been _part _of that terrorist cell? Was THAT the source of all those gruesome images plaguing his nightmares? But if he actually had been a terrorist, why brainwash him instead of incarcerate him?

Unless he really had been a spy...

Well, Snape felt that "spy" was probably pushing it, but it did occur to him that he could have been an informant- someone who had blown the whistle on a group of terrorists and had put himself in danger because of it. That would possibly explain the horrific images and the crushing sense of sickening guilt. It could also explain his current placement. He had heard of Witness Protection Programs that hid criminal informants. Such individuals were given freedom from persecution in exchange for information. They were also hidden to keep them safe.

Coincidentally, these informants received mundane, humdrum sorts of identities- _just like the one that had been given to him! _They weren't allowed exciting, glamorous, or intellectually challenging careers. Protected witnesses had to be kept carefully out of the limelight in every possible way. They had to live in boringly safe obscurity for the rest of their miserable lives. Beyond the fact that Snape couldn't imagine himself ever being the type to get involved in terrorism, his situation seemed to fit this scenario perfectly. It really did appear as though he had stumbled upon the answer.

_Except why brainwash him? _

THAT was what still didn't make any sense. If he was indeed an informant, wouldn't the knowledge that had saved him still always be useful? Brainwashing would defeat the purpose. And HOW had they managed to plant in his mind such realistic (for a while) and documented fake memories?

Though he had researched with particular diligence, Snape had never found any reference ANYWHERE that described a technique or a process that could do what had definitely been done to him. As far as current science knew, it was impossible. So HOW had it been done? Was there some sort of metaphysical power involved, some paranormal type of ability? Bad novels and even worse movies were continually made about secret government paranormal projects- and they nearly always focused on some sort of sinister conspiracy. Had he, Snape, been the victim of one of these? Or had he once, perhaps, been a perpetrator?

Here Snape paused and wondered. Along with the host of weird and horrible memories, "feelings," and impressions was the continual idea that he should be able to do things that he KNEW were impossible. There were countless times he felt he should be able to light rooms without flicking the switch, open doors without touching the knobs, or make objects fly to him without having to get up and cross the room to get them. In so many of these occasions, the strange ideas were automatic, and always there had followed a moment of confused frustration. It often felt as if the normal way, the inconvenient way, was really the _wrong _way. As if he was far more used to something else.

Of course these ideas were insane, and Snape always pushed such speculation as far away from his conscious attention as possible. He didn't want to be insane. He was _terrified _of insanity. The last thing Snape wanted, as a rational man of science, was to lose his powers of sober, deductive reasoning.

_But what if there really was such a thing as the paranormal?_ All the very odd things that he KNEW had happened in his life suggested that there were some occurrences that transcended the ordinary. His own situation appeared to be EVIDENCE. So why was such a thing so inconceivable?

Strangely enough, Snape found it difficult to even contemplate the paranormal. His mind shied away whenever the idea presented itself. It was almost as if an aversion to the concept had been planted in him along with his bland, fake memories. His mind said, "Don't go there, Snape. That way lies danger!" whenever he was tempted to think of it. It was as though he knew, deep in his subconscious, that investigating the idea would only bring him trouble.

And it actually went far deeper than that. Buried within him, even beneath his aversion to the paranormal, was the overwhelming notion, an incredible "gut" feeling, that he had once known a secret- a wonderful and terrible secret. A secret that had to be kept at all costs.

Now that he was formally acknowledging this, Snape couldn't help but consider the idea, touching it gingerly with his mind like a tongue probing a sore tooth. Yes, it did seem that there had once been a precious secret, something that had once been his- something shiveringly wonderful like having the key to Ali Babba's cave, the map to Shang-gri-la, or the ticket to all the riches and power he could want. Once he had known a secret that made him think he was special.

Yet he also knew that this secret had a dark side. A hideous side. He knew that there was a dimension to it so horrible that it eclipsed all its wonder and glory. Like the discovery that the beautiful fairy tale princess was really a hideous hag... Or the dream of being able to fly turning into a nightmare of spinning out of control in a crippling a fear of heights... Deep inside, he had the terrible knowledge that the wonder and glory wouldn't just get one killed- it could also get one damned.

What incredible secret could this have been? Could there really be such a thing as... magic?

Snape wondered now if there were paranormal powers that had once been available to him. Had he once been a part of a paranormal study? Could he have been a test subject as well as a whistle-blower? Such a combination was odd, to be sure, but oddness now seemed to be normal for him. His whole existence was paradoxical- tediously boring, frustratingly mundane, yet secretly, inexplicably incredible. So far Snape hadn't come up with a better explanation.

Still, there had to be something more that he hadn't yet thought of. Something terrible. If Snape was a whistle-blower to a terrorist operation _and _a participant in a paranormal government project, _how did those two things correlate? _Was it the government authorities that had been involved in the paranormal? Or had it been a secret terrorist cell, headed up by the insane Sirius Black, that had found a heinous new form of psychic weaponry almost along the lines of magic?

What if it had it been both?

Snape wondered what his role could have been. He was a scientist, a man with a passion for research and experimentation. Given the validity of the scenario, it was possible that he could have been part of a research team investigating the development of paranormal forces. Even now, completely in the dark as he was, and in spite of his aversion, the idea excited and intrigued him.

But surely he would never have worked for an avowed terrorist group- and certainly not one headed by a man he desperately, morbidly hated! _That _didn't make any sense. Unless the government AND the terrorists were developing ideas along the same lines...

And again, as Snape practiced his calming exercises, images came to him- images of battles and skirmishes, where green flashes dueled with red ones and bodies just dropped to the ground. Could those things have actually happened? Such was the stuff of ridiculous sci-fi serials, bad comic books, and unrealistically hyped up movies. Yet they did say truth was stranger than fiction.

Who was to say the British government _didn't _have some sort of ultra secret psychic defense force? The Americans, after all, supposedly, had "Star Wars!" And as for the terrorists... Well, if one side has a weapon, there were always enough security leaks for another side to possess it as well. Logic told him that it had to be the government that had brainwashed him and then buried him deep in the boonies. Any group run by Black would simply have killed him. Only the Authorities would have had a reason to hide him. He had to be some sort of government victim.

Which was why he was treating the subject of the paranormal with extreme kid gloves. He had no idea what he had been involved in. If the government had a "Ministry of the Paranormal" there had to be plenty of other people involved- people who knew about him, what he had done, and where he was living now. It would be incredibly dangerous to let these people know he was remembering his former life. For all he knew there was somebody watching him even now.

Snape did NOT want those involved to know he was regaining his memories. Instinct told him that, besides being hidden, he was also being punished. Why _else_ would he have been given such a soul destroying job? Though part of him was itching to try out the possibility of personal telekinesis, he didn't do it. He didn't dare. Such abilities might be detectable. And if he had such powers and they _were _detectable, his punishment might become immeasurably worse. Snape had to keep doing his research in secret. He had to learn as much as he could without tripping any alarms.

But it made sense that someone would have been sent, at least occasionally, to monitor him, and Snape made a careful mental list of every person he came in contact with. _Who among them could be watching him?_ Could it be Hanscomb? The janitor? Perhaps his landlord?

Of course, on surface examination, the likelihood of these candidates being the guilty party was ridiculous. None of the village residents fit the part of a possible undercover operative. Nobody, as far as he knew, even had strong ties outside the community. Most of the nearby families had been here for generations, and they all displayed the simple normalcy of undereducated, satisfied peasantry.

So who was the plant? Which one of the local yokels was passing information for pay? How would he ever be able to tell? And if there were such a person, how much could they have possibly seen?

A cold feeling passed over him, and for a moment Snape wondered if Miss Smith had been planted as one of his "watchers." There were too many uncanny coincidences. She had come from "outside" when almost nobody else ever did, she had a memory loss dating to about the same period that his "incarceration" began, and she had shown up at about the same time his real memories were starting to emerge in earnest. Was it really a coincidence, or was there something sinister for him here?

Snape carefully used his newfound meditative skills to reach a state of calmness. He forced himself to examine the problem dispassionately, and at the conclusion of a few minutes of measured, rational thought, he came to the conclusion that she probably wasn't his "watcher" because it was simply far too unlikely. Poor Miss Smith was just too obvious.

The most valuable characteristic of a first class mole was that no one would ever suspect them of being one. An undercover spy had to be innocuous. They needed to blend completely into the woodwork, or insinuate themselves into a community so well that people dropped their guards and spilled secrets. Any organization capable of brainwashing a dangerous informant and weaving them new, fake, "memories" would certainly use equal sophistication in placing spies to watch him. It would make no sense to employ a person who went out of their way to get his notice and made all effort to interact with him. Which Miss Smith certainly did.

Besides, there was an innocence in Miss Smith that really didn't seem false to him. Her entire being was young, open, and genuine. He doubted anyone _that_ young could fake it so convincingly. And besides that, she was miserable- truly distressed and unhappy. Her misery resonated with him deep at gut level. His _soul_ believed she was not making up her story. It just felt right to him.

Still... He couldn't help a flash of paranoid fear. He had allowed her to get so close to him, to see all his books concerning memory. He had let her watch him day in and day out. Supposing she _was _a plant and had seen a change in his demeanor or in his actions? How odd was it that she should be assigned to be HIS secretary out of all the teachers of the school?

Suddenly, he felt an urgent compulsion to research her background, to do a little digging. He just HAD to try to find out for sure. At the very least he could find out if the dates she gave him for her injury and her stay in the nursing home were true. He also reasoned that if they _were_ true then she might be a victim of the same organization that he was. And that would change the picture entirely. Then it was possible that anything he found out about her background might also be of help to _him._...

Snape dragged up a memory of where she had said she had come from, a place called Shady Acres Nursing Home, and did a computer search. He typed the name tremulously, under a sick sense of dread. This was how he had felt while searching fruitlessly for his childhood address. It had been horrifying to discover that it didn't exist, that it had _never _existed, that his early memories were lies. He had realized then that he was living a nightmare- and that he might never, ever wake up from it.

The screen flashed as Alta Vista presented a list, and Snape felt an elated spark of surprised triumph. _Yes!_ _A matched entry._ So the place really DID exist! He breathed a cleansing sigh of relief as a little of his tension ebbed. There was also a telephone listing and the name of the proprietor. The phone number was something he could use.

Back in the room he had rented for the weekend, Snape prepared to make the call. As far as he could tell, he _thought _it would be safe. He had rented the place under an alias. And he'd used _cash. _It wasn't likely that anyone had followed him here with the express purpose of monitoring his calls. Leeds was a large, metropolitan area—easy to get lost in, and he hadn't told anyone he was coming.

Besides, how likely was it that someone would take the time to follow him _everywhere_ he went, _every_ time? Despite the monstrousness of what had been done to him, Snape had a strong feeling that he wasn't actually important. That he was "small potatoes." The fact that he had been dumped in the middle of nowhere seemed proof that his brainwashers didn't think he was dangerous. Oh, he'd be monitored, but probably not too _very_ closely. It was probably safe enough to make a telephone call from a motel in Leeds. Well, either way, he was going to do it.

Of course Snape still didn't feel comfortable making phone calls and the bizarreness of that made him pause a moment. _Why _didn't he like using a telephone? Why did it seem so strange to him? Was it the _idea _of talking to someone whose face he couldn't see? Or was it the actual apparatus involved?

The rational, scientific part of Snape saw the telephone as a marvelous device. With it, one could communicate with just about anyone worldwide- all with a simple push of a button. It was the odd part of Snape, the hidden part, which viewed the device as somehow alien- as though he had once been used to communicate in a different way.

But what way? _A metaphysical way? _Some sort of _psychic _way? Snape shook his head. Even here he couldn't help a flare of confusion. Though usually his "gut" told him that the natural way, the normal way, was the lesser, inconvenient way, HERE, however, that just wasn't so. Even here, his "gut," though protesting against the use of the telephone as being somehow "wrong," agreed with his brain that it really was the best way to communicate.

And that somehow spoke volumes to Snape of the incredible oddness of whatever situation he had been forced to "forget." Taking a deep breath and steeling himself, he punched the appropriate numbers for the nursing home line. The connection on the other end was ringing.

"Shady Acres. Front desk." The voice on the other end was female.

Snape cleared his throat. "I am calling to inquire concerning a Miss Emma Smith who was a patient at your facility a few months ago."

"Emma?" The voice seemed to brighten. "Oh yes. She was here. I remember her."

"I need to know what you can tell me about her stay there."

"And who may I ask is calling? Is this in regard to the missing person's inquiry?" The voice sounded hopeful.

"Ah... no." And here Snape had to think quickly, though the answer that presented itself was ironically simple. "This is Mr. Frank Hanscomb, headmaster of the school at which she is currently employed. I am conducting a routine background check. We need to confirm a little bit about her history. Necessary paperwork, you understand."

"Oh! Oh yes, of course." The female voice sounded disappointed, but it was still briskly helpful. "Can you hold the line for a bit? I'll pull her file and see what I can find for you."

There was a long couple moments where Snape found himself listening to some insipid, nondescript, instrumental music designed to bore listeners to death. Then the voice returned to the line.

"Let's see now," and Snape heard the faint sound of pages turning. "I can tell you the dates in which she was with us. She was transferred to us from hospital on June 17 of 1998, suffering from apparent brain damage from an injury sustained on May 2nd, or 3rd of 1998. She was moved to one of the convalescent wards September 20th 2000, and discharged from the facility October 25th 2001. That is about all I can tell you. I didn't actually work with her. Would you like me to transfer you to someone in charge of the ward she was in?"

"Yes, please." Snape rejoiced inwardly at his good luck while keeping his voice carefully polite and disinterested. He waited a few minutes while the music played again. After an answering "click," a younger, cheerier voice picked up.

"Hello, sir. Is this about our Emma?"

Snape answered "Yes," but his reply was nearly drowned by an explosion of voices in the background.

"_Emma?"_

"_What about Emma?"_

"_Is that her on the phone?"_

"_How is she? Can I speak to her?"_

"_Oh, me too!"_

"_EMMA,! HOW ARE YOU, LUV? WE MISS YOU!" _Came one querulous bellow from what sounded like a half deaf octogenarian.

Snape winced.

"Oh, excuse me," the young voice said slightly exasperated before going on in a more muffled tone, "Hush everybody! Be quiet! It's not Emma. It's her BOSS! Come on, now. Pipe down. Emma's not on the phone. You can't talk to her! You need to be quiet so _I_ can talk."

"_But can you find out how's she doing?"_

"_It's been two weeks since her last letter!"_

"_Has she remembered anything?"_

"_Will she come visit us?"_

"Please! I said I need some quiet!" The voice sounded more than a little peeved. "I can't find out anything unless I can actually TALK to the man! Now give me some space. Hush now."

After a few more exhortations for the elderly inmates to 'hush' and some pat, patronizing phrases apparently designed to make that happen, the young voice returned to the phone line.

"So sorry about that, sir. Most of us still remember Emma fondly. She was a bit of a pet here."

Snape actually found himself smiling- if sporting an ironic smirk could be said to be smiling. "I understand completely. She's made herself a bit of a pet at our school as well."

"Has she? Well that sounds encouraging! Is she getting on then?"

"I would say so. She's helpful, enthusiastic, the children like her, and I do believe she's trying to revolutionize the science and math departments. My science instructor," and here he paused, trying to imagine what the real Frank Hanscomb would possibly say, "ah, doesn't know what hit him."

The voice laughed. "That sounds like Emma! So what can I tell you about her stay with us?"

Happily, at this point, Snape had the information he'd wanted. This situation just _couldn't _be false or contrived. What secret organization, no matter HOW incredibly good, would have an army of outspoken old people on hand to shout corroborating evidence just on the _off chance _he would call? Logic told him that at least this nursing home had to be real. Emma's stay in it had to be real as well. Snape posed some general, routine questions that a headmaster would likely ask and made the interview professionally short..

Later, as he lay on his rented bed staring pensively at the ceiling, Snape considered Emma's odd memory problem critically. He wondered if it wasn't similar in some ways to Visual Neglect. In VN, the brain of a person with normally good vision simply _didn't _see certain objects beyond a constrained field of view- everything left of center, for instance. He had even read or this handicap extending to a subject's _conceptual space_. There had been patients who had not been able to understand the abstract concept of a number line without blanking out the portions of it that they wouldn't have been able to see had it actually been visual.

Could Emma be suffering from a form of "memory neglect?" She had been in an accident- an accident so bad that it had resulted in her being confined to a vegetative state for two years. There could still be some brain damage left her as the result of that. It was also possible that, like the prolonged coma, it could also be temporary.

But what part of the brain controlled only _personal _memories? As far as he had researched, there had been no definitive study that had isolated one specific part as being solely responsible for it. Memory tended to be interrelated. Yet Emma could remember specific facts about places she surely must have been to, without one glimmer of personal recollection that would have accounted for such knowledge. If this was from a physical trauma, it was one that had been administered with keen, surgical precision.

Which made him wonder if it had been administered.

_But if so, why, how, and by whom? _

What reason could anyone have of inflicting such devastating damage upon a normal, healthy, and very intelligent young woman? What purpose could it have served? Could she have been a test subject, an experiment? And if that was so, why abandon her afterwards to be found and possibly rehabilitated? Wouldn't the perpetrators of such a heinous act want to cover their tracks?

The big question was whether the same forces that had stolen his memories were also responsible for the loss of hers. Like his, her situation was uncanny. Yet, why didn't she have fake memories? Unless she had somehow escaped or been broken out before she could be either reprogrammed or killed... Or perhaps the perpetrators were _very _certain that she would never recover and that was why she had been left for dead, or for life in an institution.

Had Miss Smith fooled them all? Was her partial recovery completely unplanned? Was she expected to be forever vegetative? Or had she been expected to be euthanised...

Snape suddenly wondered if there would be repercussions for the girl from just getting out of the nursing home alive, let alone possibly regaining her memories. Was somebody watching her as well? Would they know what he was doing trying to find her identity? Ice cold shivers cascaded across his skin. There might be more danger here than he had originally thought.

Which made it ironically beneficial that he had greed to start Miss Smith's silly Science Club. They had a cover. In order to research the girl's possible origins (with the hope of finding her some family, and him some answers) they were going to be spending considerable time together- time that could arouse suspicion.

But now all that together time would simply look like scholarly preparation for club activities... that they would make VERY sure were sophisticated enough to have warranted the time spent. It was perfect. No red herrings, no serious suspicion, and perhaps a little more science drummed (or conned) into student heads. What more could he possibly want?

Hmm. Perhaps he really had once been a spy.


End file.
